There's a Bug in the System
by MemorySteel
Summary: I hadn't played it in a while, so, I figured, why not? Been a while since I've heard bone puns. Except, then... Then the entire world tilts on its axis. And suddenly, its not a game anymore. There's a bug in the system. Let's name it... Reality.
1. Chapter 1

It was very late at night. To celebrate the third month of school, I had turned my computer on for the first time in 7 days. I planned on playing as late into the night as humanly possible without falling asleep on my keyboard. My dad was kind of iffy, but he decided to let me as long as I was quiet and didn't do it again for a few weeks. The clock read 11:15 p.m. By now, I had decided to take a break from flash games and was trying out ones I'd already downloaded.

An icon caught my eye. Huh. I'd 'bout forgotten about that one.

I clicked it.

I named the fallen human "Avalyn" and hit continue.

Ahhh. Good ol' nostalgia.

Putz around… Oh, hello, Flowey. Still not overfond of you and your pellets. Run into them? I think not. Dodge. Fume. Dodge. Fume. Dodge. Tries to kill me and gets booted off the screen by Toriel.

And so it continues.

* * *

Ah, snowdin at last. Ominous trees, ho hum.

Sans runs his script again.

My sprite turns around, sticks out its arm.

But instead of a whoopee cushion, a bizarre grating static sound scissored through the silence.

Sans' sprite loses its smile.

"*what-"

The screen goes black.

I make an irritated noise in the back of my throat, pressing the power button on my PC. Zilch. Tch. That's annoying. The one time I feel in the mood to lose myself in happy remembrance, the game glitches and my computer dies. Ah, well. Can't rush a complicated piece of technology. I stand up and pad down the stairs in sock feet, feeling peckish. Don't think an apple will go amiss…

There's a noise in the basement.

My heart rate immediately accelerates. Ugh, stupid thing. Really regretting those suspense/thrillers on Netflix. It's probably just Hobbes or something. Hopefully Hobbes. I pick up an apple from the fruit bowl (dad hates them cold. They kill his teeth) and head to the door. Nothing creaks, of course- silence is important for someone who works odd hours- except for the fourth step down, but it'd almost be like breaking a tradition to fix it. So says my dad. I flick on the light. A single bare bulb lights up the room. Since the basement's corner shaped, I can't see all of it. I almost pick up a piece of discarded plumbing before catching myself and laughing. It sounds tight, strained and uneasy. Idiot. Just your imagination.

Another rasping noise.

Just your imagination.

I step down the eight steps. A lucky number- it occurred in the Fibonacci sequence, was even, and wasn't prime.

Luck.

As I step onto the frigid cement floor, a ball of terrified fur explodes into my legs. I give a tiny, undignified scream, then relax. "Gosh, Hobbes, you almost gave me a heart attack." My cat doesn't even acknowledge my voice, instead huddling around my legs like a horrified scarf. I try to pick him up and get an armful of claws instead. What had him so scared? This was the cat that had attacked a frigging _pit bull_ and sent it running with scars to remember him by. Maybe it was something stupid, like a leak or something.

I roll my eyes and turn the corner(warily, but don't tell anyone).

The old mirror in the basement-cracked, warped, and missing a few corners- was covered in oily black shadow.

At its clawed feet was someone eerily familiar.

* * *

Oh, God.

What indeed.

This can't be happening-

I have to be insane-

Nothing makes sense anymore-

How can this be possible-

 _Nothing_ -

 _How_ -

How is he here?!

* * *

Okay. Okay. Deep breath. Wig out later, get it under control now.

Sans draws another raking breath. I flinch, and look down at Hobbes for support. He looks at me with the most frightened expression on the planet. I almost start laughing, but I cut myself off, because I know that if I start I'll never be able to quit.

Okay. No monster food. I have no idea how to heal Sa-

Oh.

Could do that.

I mean, there's a lot of technicalities, but who knows. Maybe I could do this.

I _have_ to do this.

I'm terrified of him crumbling to dust if I touch him, so instead I try to bring out my soul- making hand motions, fingerspelling "out", until finally the world dissolves into black and white.

Whoa.

This is awesome.

Okay, fangirl later. You've got a job to do.

I can see my soul, _his_ soul, my dad's, thousands more fading with distance- even Hobbes has a little wisp of a thing, ha. While everyone else's is in color, Sans' soul is white as snow. Huh. Color pictures in black and white, maybe?

Ugh. Focus, me.

So. How do you… heal someone… with a soul? Bandaids, yes, salve, yes. Souls? I have no earthly clue.

Well. Unearthly.

I reach out to Sans' soul. Prolly a huge breach of etiquette, but what the heck. Within four inches, I feel Sans' HP. Or rather, lack of. It's low. Too low; it has to be something insane like 0.6.

Oh, great. Crudmuffins. Crapola. SHI-

How do I fill it somebody help meeeee

SANS DON'T YOU DARE DUST ON ME DON'T YOU DA-

The emptiness evens out with a _plink_.

Whoof. Now I feel exhausted. Ugh. His HP is filled though, which is a load off my consciousness. I relax, the world fades back into color, and Sans is breathing correctly again, albeit with a downright enormous frown on his face that looks etched into the bone.

I have so completely given up on reality by now.

I carry Sans up the stairs, Hobbes giving me a look of shocked betrayal. He's simultaneously lighter and heavier than I expected- not as heavy as he would be if he had skin and muscle and organs, but his clothes make him heavier than just a skeleton. I feel like my brain is separated from my body- or at least, it has to be; otherwise I'd be screaming my head off.

Ugh.

Thank God for weekends.

* * *

 **This is the first chapter! *lobs notebook at you* TAKE IT AND BE GRATEFUL**

 **I'm a strong believer in the whole "Magic is just unexplained science", so if I do indeed continue this there will be scientific opinions! Yay!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Our character is female, with red hair and green eyes and freckles. She wears mainly skinny jeans and graphic tees and has a thing for Zelda. She's based off a close friend of mine :3 you'll find out her name soon!**

 **Thank ya'll soooooo much for encouraging me! I had no idea people would support me so much T-T**

* * *

I wake. And feel like $&!# at the exact same time! How awesome is that?

Not.

Ugh. Really shouldn't have stayed up that long. What was I even playing to make me stay up that absurdly late?

I blink, yawn, stretch, sit up. And look at the floor.

Uhh.

Uhhhh.

I… think my cerebellum just fried.

Hey, Sans. Sleeping in like normal.

Oh, God. Where do I even begin.

Eleven. That's how many times I've gone through Undertale. Three were Genocide runs- one abandoned- two were True Pacifist, a Pacifist and five Neutral runs. I gotta lotta weight (read: guilt) on my shoulders here. A guilty conscience. And an alternate-reality-traveling, magic-using skeleton who's definitely _not_ going to love me for that.

Who still hasn't woken up. Whoever invented laziness, thank you.

Welp. Better eat something for breakfast. I _think_ it's still breakfast- it's 8:33 or so. Definitely not brunch. I tuck a blanket around his shoulders and head to the kitchen.

I pad down the stairs again. Dad's up, lounging in the living room, still barely awake. Both Hobbes and Sans _combined_ are probably more of a morning person than he is, ha. By mutual agreement, neither of us speak until I finish my cold cereal and flop onto my normal spot- an old wingback armchair- with a tattered favorite novel in one hand and a mug of tea in the other. Dad, by now having consumed about a pot of coffee, is almost awake enough to manage elaborate conversation.

"How late did you stay up?" he ask-mumbles.

"Eh." I shrug. "Three or so. I'm definitely going to regret staying up that late."

"Hm."

As a rule of thumb, my dad and I don't talk all that much. Mostly we just do stuff together- like me showing him the ropes of gaming and him showing me the ropes of cooking. Dad works at the Department of Transportation, which has him working hours like 12 to 8- both halves of the clock. Weirdly enough, he loves his job, so I'm not going to stop him or throw a fit or anything. I really wanted to when I was little, until it threw our entire tiny household of th- **two** into utter turmoil. So I stopped. He's not really a bad person, anyway- he just does comrades better than kids. So, we collaborate instead of cuddle, I guess.

His phone rings, breaking the silence. I watch him idly over the rim of my mug as he starts and digs it out of his pocket. "Cadin Gabiola speaking." He frowned as a tinny voice yammered away in his ear. "Yeah, be there directly." He turned it off and sighed. "There's a shortage that apparently needs me and can't wait." He looks up at me and smiles crookedly. "Sorry, kiddo."

I roll my eyes and peck him on the cheek. "Go ahead, you big mushbucket. Do what you love."

He's ready and out the door in five minutes, with only a cooling mug of coffee and a few scattered papers to mark his absence. Well, I can't procrastinate any longer. Better go and see if Sans has woken up yet.

I almost start up the stairs, but think, what the heck, and grab an unopened bottle of ketchup from the pantry. Here's hoping it's non-alcoholic to skeleton monsters.

* * *

Sans is still asleep. Sheesh, dude. You're worse than Hobbes- though it'd probably come pretty close. That cat, I swear…

I bite my lip. Most of what I do in my room involving recreation involves noise on some level. I mean, Sans sleeps in a house with _Papyrus_ in it, but, welll…

Aha! A spark of inspiration! I dig (quietly) around in my desk for a moment- which is a mess, by the way- and find what I'm looking for; a pair of fluffy, red-violet earmuffs. I carefully slip them over where his ears might be. I really hope he doesn't hear through his kneecaps or something.

Then I walk over to my keyboard and bwgin to play.

My room is kind of cluttered at first glance, but at second it's kind of… bare. There aren't any pictures of me, just a few of my closest friends. There's a few posters- Zelda, Super Smash Bros., yada yada(there's actually surprisingly few game things in my room, actually; most of it's just cool art). There's a bed, my PC, a desk, my keyboard and several bookshelves. I just sit on my bed if I want to. Since I never took piano lessons- and never really want to, anyway- I just picked up a few essentials and started picking out songs. If I ever need to figure something out, then I google it. I've scribbled down the things I've picked out over the years- even though it's kind of unnecessary, since I know them by heart- but rather safe than sorry.

Of course, most of them are themes from games or movies or somesuch. I did halfheartedly try playing something with music, but my subconscious rebelled mightily. That's me, rebellious teenager supreme.

After a few indecisive moments, my morbid self settles on Megalovania.

Watching a few youtube tutorials and playing by ear sounds pretty good, even to perfectionist me.

I move on to Bonetrousle, then the Star Wars theme. Finally, I settle on one of my favorite pastimes- playing "In the hall of the mountain king" as fast as humanly plausible. I don't actually have the music; I just pick it out in whatever scale and go on from there.

I get lost in the music.

I make a mistake and scowl. My streak was _so good_ , carn carnit.

Another irritating regularity. COME ON, I'm supposed to be better than this-

Clash.

I turn my head around to see three dragon skulls and too many bones to count, all wreathed in crackling cyan magic.

Oh, _SHI_ -

Bone grinds into my ribcage.

I don't feel in pain, just… Cold. Like the frost I used to trace in my childhood Montana home. Beautiful frost. No, _gorgeous_ frost. White frost. Black and white and blue and pink-

What peculiar frost. Father will find this interesting. I have to record this somehow, take a picture maybe.

Aw, the frost is crying. Don't cry, jack frost. My blood will freeze and puncture my veins and arteries and whatnot, and then I'll be so dead, not even a _miracle_ would save me.

Miracles. What do you do to make them happen again?

Oh, yeah. Wish upon a star. Too bad it's daytime.

* * *

 **Notes:**

 **"I think my cerebellum just fried" is an obscure reference to Calvin and Hobbes, which is a beautiful comic and is children safe and also YOU HAVE TO REEEEEAAD IT.**

 **The novel is Mort by Terry Pratchett, also a must read. You may want to read The Color of Magic and The Light Fantastic first, though. Terry Pratchett is the best comedic fantasy writer of all time, hands down.**

 **"Carn carnit" is pronounced KARN SARN-it. Bossy Rs for both.**

 **Daily Philosophy;**

 **since nobody has ever done this before (cough crossed universes cough HELLO), Sans and (?) are writing their own rules. For instance, if (?) had expected the ketchup to have alcoholic effects, then it would have. This is what we call an imprinting universe, folks.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hellooooooo!**

 **Hold onto yer butts...**

 **'Cuz we goin for a wild ride.**

 **EDIT: bit of swearing. AND THIS GOT A MAJOR FACELIFT TIS MUCH BETTER NOW**

* * *

 **Several Seconds Earlier**

Sans woke up.

There was a soft something tucked around him. The headache from shaking hands with the kid (?) still lingered, but then, he typically had headaches from staying up too much anyway. He also couldn't hear anything, but when he reached up his face, something fluffy was blocking his hearing.

He pulled it off.

Music.

Blinding, giddy, eerie and faintly melancholy. It was coming from…

Over there…

What.

The _heck_.

Had happened.

The human frowned suddenly at his horrified whimper, and played faster.

Everything went black for a moment.

Gold. Red and gold.

Papyrus, you want anything?

And before he knew it, Sans threw a bone into the human.

Oh, #$*&ing &% *ing _ &&%_.

Thiiiiiis was not good in the freaking loosest sense of the word, freaking fricking fudge God. His feet carried him over to the human, bleeding out on previously pristine carpet. _No._ he cradled their head in his lap. They looked so calm. How did they manage that? Even he hallucinated when he died. They reached up to wipe away tears. "Don't cry, jack frost," They whisper.

Nngod.

Nnnfudge.

Nnnnwhatdoidohelpme

I'm not meant to deal with emoting here

Could the entire world turn into paper until i calm down

Thank you for the inconvenience

Forget it.

I give up.

* * *

An anomaly. And it isn't even the usual one. How... _interesting_.

The decision was easy enough to make- a few exhausting eternities for a precious bout of meddling.

For a moment, the black shadow, becoming slick and three-dimensional, remained unseen.

The human saw it first. Amazingly, it spoke in a lucid, clear voice.

"Gaster?"

The shadow paused.

Hm.

Then it did something that, as a rule, things from the void weren't allowed to do.

It _interfered._

It reached out, yanking out their soul manually instead of magically, and poked it with an amorphous finger.

The world glitched for a moment. Ten thousand different possibilities flickered around the room, before the being decided to make its own.

It had a lot of practice.

* * *

Oh, hey, cool. I didn't know shadows could do that. Except for one.

But yes.

"Gaster?" the word feels awkward, coming out of my mouth. Probably because of the fact that I'm bleeding out my face.

They yank out my soul and poke it.

The world glitches.

And in the middle of it all, a million billion voices- angry, deep, tired, sad, splintered, bitter, sorrowful, gibberish, and anything else you'd care to name- say:

"Wh **A** t i _ **f**_ you _w_ ere I _n_ a WORLD wh **ere** non- **ne** o-o-o-of th-this _**ha**_ d hapPenEd?"

And time unravelled like a sweater, with the goopy shadow-skeleton man setting the rhythm.

* * *

I stop playing.

I don't duck- something pushes me inexorably _down_.

A bone stabs itself into the wall, directly over my head. Holy crow, that was a narrow miss.

Better fix that.

I turn and stare. Sans is awake, and looking somewhat… Unhinged.

He snaps out of it. His hand drops to his side. With it disappear the bone constructions.

"Uh," I say, eager to break the silence. "Hi?"

* * *

He blinks. "what. the _hell_. Happened."

"Yyyeah, about that," I say, feeling vaguely ashamed. "You… kind of… fell through the mirror in the basement? And before you ask, haven't got a clue as to the how or why. Um. Sorry."

He heaves a quiet sigh, dragging a calcareous palm down his face and looking drained of all will to go on. "of course."

I half-force a laugh. "Yep. Really not envying your position right about now."

He gazes into the middle distance for a moment, eyes dark.

"... Sans?"

His head turns slowly. Still no pupils, which is very creepy. Ugh, brrrrr. "am i dreaming?"

Blink. What. "If you are, then so am I. Fantabulous imagination, by the way."

He gives me a long, considering look. "nah, i'm not dreaming. my imagination isn't this good."

I... actually have no response to that.

Sans reads the shock on my face and snorts. "well, that solves that. i am officially insane." I say nothing, shocked into deeper silence. He laughs, harsh and bitter. "welp, it was bound to happen sometime. **tibia** honest, i'm glad- it's not like th' kid can reach me here, right? better settle back and watch the show. who knows what'll happen next? in here one second, gone the next, doing God knows what when, maybe you'll end up killin' me, maybe i'll end up killin' Paps, maybe you'll end up f-ing your godd#mn mother-"

" **SHUT UP**!"

I haven't felt this angry in a long, long time. It feels almost nice, to break, to give in to the savage pleasure of ruining someone and _not caring_ -

"Don't insult the dead," I hiss, voice shaking in agony and grief and pure, unadulterated fury. "And don't you **dare insult my mother**. You are a tenth the person she is, you son of a bitch! You don't deserve her mercy, you don't deserve my mercy, you don't deserve your brothers' mercy!" My voice is too loud, and it cracks on the first "mother", but i dont care dont care dont care he _deserves every iota of it_. Why am i crying- i shouldn't be crying- there's something wrong with me.

I storm out of my room, slamming the door behind me, blocking off Sans. I can still feel his eyes pierce my soul. I slump on the top of the stairs, break down, and cry like I haven't cried since 364 days ago. Something furry bumps my hand. I look down, and see Hobbes, worried in a feline sort of way and looking for a way to make me stop leaking water out of my eyes and giving off depressing vibes. I grab him, squeeze him tightly to my chest, and cry even harder than before. He doesn't protest like he would normally, just purrs reassuringly. Hah. Even the cat pities me. I am such a _wreck_.

Eventually, I calm down. I'm putting off going to my room until as late as humanly possible.

* * *

I don't have to.

Go to my room, that is.

Sans touches my shoulder.

I don't react (but _dang_ , he's frigging quiet).

"sorry," is all he says.

I heave a shaky sigh. "I should be the one apologizing," I mutter. "I really shouldn't have blown up like that. I apologize." I put Hobbes down. He wriggles out of my arms and gallops off to stare at a goldfinch.

"i'll accept your apology," says Sans in quiet, razor tones, "if you get me a bottle of ketchup and explain what the h ll's goin' on."

I almost snap a retort along the lines of "well, look who's bargaining", but then I realize that I'm probably the one who (inadvertently) drug him here in the first place. And besides, I'm Undertale trash. I've read way too many fanfictions of people who left Sans in the dark until the last minute, and look what happened to them. I stand up and brush off my jeans, then head down the stairs. Hobbes gives me an annoyed look for scaring away his goldfinch.

"Might as well get started."

* * *

 **Heh. Sorry not sorry.**

 **BAD GASTER! Weird shadowy things are not allowed to interfere with the mundane realm! Bad, bad gaster!**

 **Mom died recently. Sans didn't touch a nerve, he touched a raw nerve _bundle_.**

 **I'll probably be out for a while, as I'll be dreaming up terrifying questions and answers. *maniacal laughter***

 **Thank ya'll for reading!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Holy fricklenoodles, that took waaaaay too long! Sorry sorry sorry! Although I have a plot now, so everything should be a-okay.**

 **Thank you all, sweet persons, for reviewing. Life is being irritatingly lifelike right now, and I apologize for the inconvenience. I also read Ender's Game. And Lord above, that novel delicately tore my heart into smithereens and then, when I thought I could just crawl away and** ** _die_** **, it sewed my heart back together with a rusty fishhook and rough steel wire and bad eyesight in the last 5% of the book. Meaning, it's very good and you should all read it. XD**

 **But you came here for an angsty chapter. Oh, really? Well, sorry, you're getting angst whether you liked it or not. Here it is.**

* * *

I don't. Start immediately, that is. As a matter of fact, I procrastinate as long as humanly possible, which is actually only about four and a half minutes. I put out Hobbes first- which takes a full minute in itself ('Don't catch any wrens or crows, because I like the former and the latter will tear you to pieces, fuzzbrain') - and then I turn the shades so that nobody can see inside. Preferably, I would also turn off the lights and light a candle, but a) that sounds a lot like a romantic dinner and b) while solemn things are best talked about in dim surroundings, doing that would be taking it a _bit_ far.

After getting a glass of water from the tap- I'm shaking enough as it is, the last thing I need is a slippery, sweating glass of ice water- I pulled another unopened bottle (kind of dusty, the _safe_ kind, but I washed it off anyways) from the pantry. Finally I can delay no longer, and sit down across from him.

"So, um, do you have any idea who goes first? I mean, I guess people who break a few of the laws of the universe by travelling interdimensionally get a discount or something?"

Aaaaaand still stonefaced. Forgotten deities, I need to remember that Sans currently _not_ my friend in the _loosest sense of the word_ , or I'll just end up on his bad side, which would be atrocious.

Well. More like mired deeper within his bad side.

I cough, embarrassed. "Er, just… go first I guess?"

" **what. happened.** "

I almost say, elaborate, but then I realize that this was the kind of question that can only be elaborated in _every_ direction. I almost say, I don't know, but I can't just give someone who's travelled interdimensionally an "I don't know" without something-likely very unpleasant- in return. I almost say a lot of things. I can't say them.

"Um... " where to start…

The beginning isn't that bad, they say.

But _which_ beginning do I choose?

Start with Undertale- the Undertale you know.

Wait. the Undertale I know? What does that mean- I don't know it anymore? Who are you, anyway?

I'm you.

Really.

Yup.

…

Do _not_ give me an ellipsis.

And Sans is staring at me. Forget if looks if kill, if looks could _bake you alive_ …

I clear my throat, trying and quite possibly failing to un-awkwardize the situation. _What to say, what to say, what to_ say _..._ "Okey dokey. You're familiar with the many worlds theory?" His glare seems affirmative, so I dry-swallow and continue, falteringly. I hate it when I sound like this- unsure and timid and quiet. "Well, in this case, I see two possible ways you're here. Both involve your universe-original universe- being- being a…" My heart, already going at a sprint, speeds up a little bit more. I swallow again- _dang it why is my throat so_ _ **dry**_ \- and persist. "A video game called Undertale, copyright Toby "Radiation" Fox. The protagonist is the eighth human child to fall in the Underground, and their name is Frisk. They are the Angel of the Underground, and y- the player has three main choices; Pacifist route, Neutral route, or-"

"Genocide."

I don't look up at him. _Coward_ , the dark side of my heart sings. _Spineless coward!_

"three runs," he continues softly. "in the first, when they broke down in front of my brother, i really thought they gave up."

It's all I can do not to cringe. I know what's coming next.

" **Then they RESET.** "

I flinch anyway. I don't know how I couldn't; the venom in his voice is breathtaking, like a kick to the chest, made all the worse by the fact that _i did this and i know i deserve it._

"i watched my Brother die twice in a row. two times, i evacuated all the monsters. two times, it was _useless_. once, and **only** once, They stopped when i asked them to." (it's amazing, how one can hear the weight attached to the words with capital letters- like millstones or tomb doors. It's almost tangible.) " **They didn't do it the second time.** "

I don't do anything, even though the weight (guilt) is filling me with disturbingly vibrant _energy_ , because it's also crushing crushing crushing me and i can hardly think with black-hole-density of it.

"Eleven resets- and you influenced, if not caused, them all," he says in a voice just a pinch above a murmur. He doesn't need to use the weight anymore because I know he can, and that terrifies me out of my wits. Coward. Sans allowed that to sink in for a moment, before continuing, slower than the first time; "which i will deal with later. now _explain_."

And so I take a deep, shaky breath. My cheeks are kind of damp; dunno when that happened.

Here goes nothing...

"The f-first option is that there is, for lack of a better phrase, a bug in the system- someone or some _thing_. By which I mean that you got transported through space, severe magical backlash aka the barrier, quite possibly time and the mirror in the basement. I think it was set off- I mean, whatever _it_ was- by interaction with Frisk. Either way, there is some downright _smart_ stuff playing hell with most of the laws of the universe, unless of course I don't know enough, which is definitely possible. The… the _second_ option is… much worse. It's uh, hah... " I fiddle with a ring on my finger. "You're a paradox. And the universe reeeeeaaaaally does _not_ like paradoxes. At all."

I fold my hands in my lap and start picking at my cuticles. I take a sip of water, because doing anything else seems kinda nerve-wracking right now. "Even though I know it means absolutely _nothing_ to you, I- I'm sorry. I regret what I did." conflicted with nervous tension, I burst out,"How do you know I'm telling the truth?"

He somehow manages to kick back, hands in pockets, in a heavy kitchen chair. "You're so guilt-ridden, the most insensitive bonehead on the planet could tell you'd done all that."

I blink. Is he calling himself-?

No. Think about that later.

I take several deep breaths. Okay. Okay, I can do this. I survived the Judge's speech, I can do this.

"Alright," I say jerkily, pulling out my phone, "There should be easy way to find out if this is going to be hard or impossible.."

"what are you doing." He doesn't sound _that_ annoyed- though that's probably all I am to him, a tiny pestering gnat, knowing how powerful he is.

"Googling Mount Ebbot," I mutter. Some tiny voice is pleading, begging, that what I think isn't reality.

Of course the internet is fiddly. I chew my fingernails to the quick, feeling Sans' burning stare on me, waiting.

Finally it loads.

Well.

$%!#.

"Okay, good news," I say, voice rasping maddeningly in my throat. "We don't have to build a quantum machine thing. The bad news is- is that the paradox could still exist, and since everything is real, there's going to be variables. Lots and lots and _lots_ of variables. However," I say, half to myself, "I think we might be able… Yeah, that could work…" The euphoria, faint and tinged with gnawing guilt, at a new plan- and a new possibility- floods my head, making thinking faster and easier. "Okay," I announce, getting up and pacing, "Next week is Halloween. It's on a Friday, which means we'll be able to go somewhat inconspicuously to Mount Ebbot- I think we can catch a bus- and-"

"and how do i know you're telling the truth?"

That stops me in my tracks.

"Sans. You _can't trust me_. I am a human, you know, the species you're at war with?" I snort. " _Stars_ , boy, I thought you were intelligent! My kind trapped you in a f #&ing pit for God knows how long, you can't trust me, you NEED me." I wave my arms animatedly. "I- There- there are other humans out there who's flipping job is to be scared of things they don't understand to keep this nation safe, and you- you have _magic_! You can pull souls out of people's chests and turn them blue and turn gravity itself on them! They're going to kill you and examine your dust and find the rest of you and- and-" I stop what I'm doing- raving and storming across the floor- and lean against the counter, suddenly exhausted. "Look, just… throw me a bone here, man. As long as nobody suspects you're here, you're sa-"

A tiny bone bounces off my shoulder.

Sans is smirking.

"… ?"

"if you don't calm down, i'll never get answers, because you'd be dead of heart attack." So not a _friendly_ smirk.

I'm so confused, there is not even a word for what I am feeling right now. "?"

He folds his arms. "look. i like this about as much as you do. so just let me survive the week, escort me to the mountain, and forget this ever happened. or you're going to have-" his eye ignites-" a **really bad time.** " He cocks his head and holds out his hand. "deal?"

I apprehensively held out my hand and shook.

"PTTTTHHHHBBBBBBBTTTttttttt."

My jaw drops to the floor. "No _way_."

Sans looks smug.

"How did you- that wasn't even- this shouldn't-"

He starts snickering.

"No _way_."

He winks. "yes way."

At last, I start to laugh.

And it's probably false, but I feel like maybe everything is going to be okay.

* * *

 **Holy crud it's eleven and i've had two hours too little sleep and I've gotta get up early tomorrow and just nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnngh I'm really stupid**

 **BUT I GOT ANOTHER CHAPTER *fist pump***

 **I'm gonna set a deadline- this time next week- and see how that turns out. Phew.**

 **I know this year is tuesday halloween and last year was monday halloween but hey. plot conveniences.**

 **I have a disclaimer on my bio, but I think I'll put one here anyways; I do not own Undertale.**

 **Enjoy. Tell me if there's any mistakes I missed.**

 **Night. XP**

 **Oh holy matrimony, I forgot! I updated chapter three, its much better now and in case you didn't read it before now I'm telling you that you should; it left off at a slightly different point than the one before.**


	5. Chapter 5

**WELL  
SO MUCH FOR UPDATING ON TUESDAY**

 **Sorry about that. oops.**

 **At the very end, there's a bit in Hobbes' perspective! Since animals don't have words, per se, I used a few different ones hyphened together to replace them. I really enjoyed writing that bit, haha**

 **But mostly just quality fam time with pops**

 **And ooooooooo boy, all of you will probably hate me after this MWAHAHAHAA**

 **(I think there's one cuss word. Just the one :D)**

* * *

Sans and I talk about absolutely nothing at all for the rest of the morning. It's as though the conversation is a stream; Sans and I are two springs, and when he cracks a joke there's a happy burble made by the water flowing around it. Even though I know that this brief lapse can only last so long, I lose myself in it, and laugh like there's never gonna be another joke.

Our conversation stream lasts all the way through lunch (a ketchup sandwich and a PBJ- I'll let you guess which is which) until it was stopped abruptly by a levee in the form of my dad pulling into the driveway. Sans blips off somewhere, and I hastily put his plate in the sink on my way to the door.

Dad sweeps through the door, already muttering irritably about the cretins littering today's workplace. Hobbes agreed loudly in Feline on the way to the food bowl, ambling with a cat's arrogance on the way to the food bowl even though a city sparrow laid upon the doormat. I just grin. That's my two dorks, all right.

 **[Funny. Her eyes just glide on over the extra car, dusty from disuse, and that door in the hall. I wonder where it goes...]**

"Would you like something to eat?" I ask Dad pointedly over his exasperated raving.

"I mean, really, you'd think tha- oh. Yeah. Thanks, Jean." His ears turn a little red, and I fight the urge to laugh. He runs a hand through his hair- ginger, like mine, but lacking the curls- and then shoofs my head with the same hand. "How was your day?"

"Eh." I shrug nonchalantly. "The world turned, some stars went nova, a skeleton fell through the mirror in the basement. Same old gig."

He laughs softly, and smooches the top of my head. "I love you, blue jeans."

"Love ya more, old man." I lift the boxes out of his preoccupied hand and sigh noiselessly through my nose. Pizza for dinner _again_. _when will he ever gain the courage to cook agai_

What was I thinking…? Never mind. If I can't remember it now, then it must not be important. I start his favorite sandwich- ham and mayonnaise with fresh spinach, all toasted. I almost think we're out of spinach until I realize there's a whoooole 'nother bag in the very back of the top shelf in the fridge. "Are you home for real, or is this just a lunch break?"

"Ah, sorry, just a lunch break. Where's the toaster?"

I choke down my relief and remove the bag of tortilla chips. "Right there. While you're in town, could you pick up some ketchup and milk? We're almost out."

"Ketchup? Didn't we have _two bottles_ in the pantry somewhere?"

"Nope."

"God, going senile already. What a nightmare." I force a chuckle along with him, handing the sandwich over to be toasted. " What about work? I thought it was just something small…?"

"Yeah. Just, a there was a bunch of _other_ small things, and they all got snowballed together."

There's a tense silence, frustrating because I don't know why it's tense. Dad's fidgeting, quiet, tapping out anxious rhythms on all the surfaces within reach. I sigh. "Wh-"

"It's just, uh, that, that she… It's been- been a year since…"

Slowly, absurdly slowly, I realize the meaning cringing behind his fumbling, achy words. My heart rate speeds up, and then slows to a crawl.

 _Oh,_ most of me thinks. _That._

The rest of me- small and livid with terror- is scrambling around on hands and knees, begging, pleading to know why the hell I'm not staggering under this weight I'm supposed to be carrying, yelling my throat hoarse at the intensity of this agony I do not feel, sobbing at the unquenchable grief in my soul that I'm not aware of, and _not feeling this aching_ _ **hole**_ _in this God-forsaken world that her absence left_.

I blink. My eyes aren't even stinging, and when I speak, my voice is level, casual. "I'll go get my coat."

* * *

With an hour-long lunch break, a five-minute distance betwixt work and our house, and a 40-minute round trip to the cemetery Mo She was buried in, there is little time to get flowers. Dad chooses slowly and carefully, gruff from the pressure of unshed tears; three stargazer lilies offset by baby's breath. There is a 4-for-5-dollars discount, but the number three is sacred- one for me, one for Dad, one for me, and one for Her.

The drive to Oaklawn Cemetery is utterly silent. When it's time to get out, Dad uses 30 precious seconds to steel himself. I think we both know the steel will rot anyway.

He silently hands me the flowers. I gently free the blossoms of their plastic wrapping and lay them just below the headstone. Then I retreat to Dad's side, and we stare at the inscription under which she rests, thinking and remembering.

 _ **Elizabeth Jean Silversmith Gabiola**_

 _ **Mother, Sister, Daughter, Wife**_

 _ **April 12, 1977 - October 26, 2016.**_

 _ **May the stars watch over her**_

My hand finds Dad's.

 _I miss you, Mom._

Out of the blue, I want to do something- shout Her name, scream, cry, sing in remembrance of what was lost; a shooting star, brief, fleeting, outlined against the frigid desert of eternity, doomed to freeze, to fail. If the universe is cold and uncaring, to steal such a beautiful person in the prime of her life, then what chance have I, a person a twelfth of Her, dirty and dim in comparison? What is the point of living if this is our fates, regardless of the good or bad we commit? _What is the point?..._

The energy fades, faster than it came and leaving lethargy in its place. Numbness threatens to take over my mind. It is only with the greatest willpower that I beat it back, back to the dark place from whence it came. The numbness has been there since day one, lurking with predatory patience; every time I beat it back, it's a little quicker to the edge of the skirmish and a little later in leaving. I know that it will be there as long as I have a soul; I know, too, that one day, I won't be able to hold it back any longer.

I don't think about that day much.

With a jerk, I realize that I haven't been breathing much at _all_ for the past 45 seconds; I breathe in like I've been underwater that whole time. Dad starts, too, unaccustomed to the noise. We don't release the other's hand until we have to part to get into the car. Dad breathes- quavering on the inhalations and shuddering on the exhalations- before surreptitiously wiping his face and starting the car.

It is only then that I notice the twin wet lines on my face.

* * *

Hobbes' Perspective

* * *

He yawned, and stretched. The short-sleep in his chair had been refreshing. He sat back and washed himself, considering his options; inspect his realm that the furless-cats-on-two-legs used (by his permission), eat the dry, flavorless rocks-that-he-could-eat, drink out of the white-bowl-with-loud-water, or make dirt in the dirtplace-in-a-box. He had sadly been trapped inside the boxed-in-nest, and thus could not go into the outdoors and hunt. Hobbes decided on the first choice, and padded out of the room.

Rubbing his face and twining his tail around anything and everything he could, Hobbes inspected the eating room. Then he stopped at the only closed door in his boxed-in-nest; the short furless-cat-on-two-legs' favorite den, which often dressed in bright, exciting pelts and gave that odd, drawn-out barking purr very often.

For three winters, since he'd been a kitten, there had been three furless in the nest; the furless-she-kit-with-bright-hair, the furless-tom-with-bright-hair, and the furless-queen-with-dark-hair. The sorry represenative of purring had come quickly those days, and with ease, especially from the furless queen.

The day it all changed, there had been no warning but the heavy rain the night before; the family of three had vacated during the early hours, when the sun was just painting the horizon in red, and they didn't return for the _whole day_. In fact, the furless queen didn't return at all, no matter how much he pleaded for her to come back and play with him, and when he posed the question to the other furless, all they did was turn away.

Eventually, Hobbes came to the conclusion that the furless queen was not-breath-cold, and would never ever again come in through the entryway to scratch his ears and purr. He himself was no stranger to mourning- he had lost his mother and littermates in a fire- but for some bizarre reason, the furless kit and the furless tom kept feeling grief at the furless queen's absence and entire four-season after she was gone. It was curious, but Hobbes came to accept it, like many things before.

One thing Hobbes _wasn't_ accepting was the recent appearance of lazy-dangerous-miserable-not-furless. Its voice buzzed around much longer than needed in his ear fur, he had too-knowing eyes, and- worst of all- Hobbes had no idea **what** it was. It smelled like the bone of the various birds he caught, acted like a furless with problems, and it could _lift things_ without _touching them_ and make them smell like hot-water-empty-space-fire-bitter-cold for _days_.

It also slept a lot.

As a matter of fact, reflected Hobbes grouchily, it slept too much. Far too much. Not even _he_ slept that amount, even when he was ill! He stood in the doorway, glaring petulantly at the slumbering heap, lying face-down on the carpet. Hobbes twitched his ear in a sour fashion, and the lump of blue turns completely over in response, mumbling something that sounds like "P'pyr'ss…", still out cold.

Since Hobbes obviously hates Sans, it will be a complete mystery to all when the cat stomps over and settles into a loaf shape on the exact center of his ribcage.

Well… Perhaps it isn't a complete mystery.

He is a cat, after all.

* * *

 **Tell me what you thought of this! Your comments make my day :u:**

 **Any questions, put em in the review box down there. -_|**

 **(There is an Inheritance Cycle reference somewhere in here *maniacal laughter*)**

 **and omg is it really this late why am i doing this to myself *cries, fails, falls asleep at laptop***


	6. Chapter 6

**I REALLY HOPE THIS ISN'T GOING TO BECOME A HABIT.**

 **In any case, this is really long and full of feels to try and make up for my lateness. D':**

 **This author's note is gonna be a little long, so.**

 **Firstly! I really want to give thanks to my first reviewers on this! One day, I may eventually stop hiding 'neath my nice warm blanket and greet the world outside in a distinctly un-belated fashion. Today is not that day, obviously.**

 **Thank you so much, Tokomishi Heart, Trainer Fiona (who has reviewed 4 TIMES TO DATE, DON'T THINK I MISSED THAT X3), cryptologicalMystic, FandomTrash4Life, ZombieSlayers,** I guest as much **(yo, bruh), extra special thanks to INFJwriter and their downright BRUTAL review, trinity. parkour1, aaaand SquareRootOf-1! You've all been so kind! Go check them out, ya'll! Give them some love!**

 **Now then. Guys, there's gonna be someone popping in from time to time. Say hello to Brackets!**

 **[Sheesh, I can introduce myself. Anyhoo. I am brackets. I make extremely vital announcements, and I am _not_ Chara. ew.]**

 **Yeah, that was Brackets. They're pretty cool. You may have noticed them before, and you'll definitely notice them now. There's a teensy bit of swearing that I'm ashamed of... I think that's all. Notify me of any errors/OOCness WHATsoever, I'm a humongoid perfectionist.**

 **The chapter you've all been waiting for!**

* * *

Sans awoke to the slam of a door.

Shortly after, a lock clicked loudly- presumably on the same door- a car rolled out of the drive, and footsteps clacked on the floor downstairs. His mind was full of a pleasant pink cloud after a decidedly bland, dust-free dream;there was a heavy, fuzzy warmth on his ribs, and light from the CORE was filtering in from his window. He wondered vaguely if Pap was oka-

Wait.

Wait wait waaaaaaaaaait.

They didn't have a car, or a cat? (i)

His spike of panicked magic- the monster equivalent of adrenaline- awakened higher thought with a _bang_. Papyrus isn't here- maybe safe, maybe not. There hadn't been a RESET- that was sunlight through the window and a tomcat on his chest. And he was mostly sure that this human wouldn't massacre the Underground.

…

Yeah, okay, he was lying and he knew it.

But, marginally less importantly, why on earth was this weird thing sleeping on him? He wasn't exactly, I dunno, warm? Or very soft? Just, what?

Meanwhile, the footsteps made their way up the stairs and into the bedroom. The mind's eye pans from the Sans with a Hobbes on top, and Jean shuts the door. She then proceeds to silently ooze down it into a well-practiced position- a tight, upright fetal ball with her arms hugging her knees, which in turn disguised her face.

"Hi Sans," She mumbled, voice uncharacteristically gray and flat. "Nice to see you somewhat awake. Why is Hobbes sleeping on you?"

"not the foggiest idea. to tail the truth, i have even less of an idea than you cuz there was nil cats in the Underground outside anime."

Jean raised her head, and _sweet Asgore her_ _ **eyes**_ \- "You had NO cats? What about Temmies? Don't they count on some level?"

"... uh." _they were just blank my God is that how i look when_ \- "no. temmies are… worse."

She really perked up at that. "Worse? How worse?"

"they. uh…" oh great, he was starting to sweat. Hobbes was starting to wake up. Joy. "they just. i. don't like them."

"Wait. Are you _scared_ of _temmies?_ "

She was starting to look delighted. Hobbes, in a spirited movement, had somehow contorted his body into a position that most professional acrobats would be madly jealous of without falling off of Sans- though he did get a 8/10, for the tail draped across Sans' face. "keep going down that path and i'm gonna tasks a catnap at will."

She started to snicker. "I cannot believe you're scared of Temmies! That's terrible!"

"yup. downright clawful. 'night." Sans flopped backwards and drifted into the waiting darkness.

Jean smiled and crawled across the floor to scratch Hobbes on the head. He opened a single emerald eye, spotted her, and purred, digging his meathook claws into Sans' white shirt. Sans, who had his left arm thrown over his face, did absolutely nothing but mutter something suspiciously like "tem" and shiver faintly. Jean heaved a sigh, sitting down next to Sans cross-legged and thoughtful. She continued to pet Hobbes, relishing the silence. The calm before- well. Not the storm, per se. Real life wasn't a roleplay; there was a long, sweaty, silence before the battle, reeking of fear; there was death, and bad luck, and unexpected rainstorms; there was consequences, and there was no reset button. Jean winced at that thought. Today had been painful, almost. The shadow of anguish hinted at a far deeper torment below the surface, and Jean was scared that feeling very much at all would set it off.

That was how she knew her soul trait wasn't bravery. When she was scared of something, she ran away instead of, at the very least, looking the problem in the face before turning heel.

But if she felt hardly anything at _all_. If she could sleep easily after Her passing… What did that make her?

* * *

 **[Jean is ready to be experienced by the readers from first person.]**

* * *

Hobbes chirped suddenly, chastising me for stopping. Jolted out of my reverie, I smiled faintly, wistfully at the tabby. "Do you remember her?"

Hobbes sighed in bliss and pushed against my hand.

"Figures. I never really thought animals were capable of much grief. Maybe it's a soul thing, huh?"

Hobbes yawned and began to wash his paws.

"Yep, those exist now, buddy. Whooda thunk it." I smiled a little wider. "I think she would have liked him. Do you remember? She always had some quip or prank or joke ready. Someone would insult her, and she'd just bounce back laughing; that one guy called her short, and all she did was say, 'Yeah, I've got hobbit blood and proud of it!' Remember?"

Hobbes started washing his ears and face; I moved my hand to his shoulders.

"She made oil paintings for five people, but she always preferred something else if it was someone she liked- watercolors, sketches. She even made that one hanging tree ornament for her twin sister, remember? And she said, 'iron, for strength and corruption, copper for surprises, and silver, for starlight and memory.' She always spoke in near riddles." Hobbes, who had sat up to wash his forelegs, flicked his ears at the crack in my voice.

"She always loved telling everyone within earshot about their eighth date. They hiked up a mountain, and while the sun set, he pulled out a guitar, and he played the absolute most off-key, warped rendition of Drops of Jupiter. She said…" I shake my head at the burn in my eyes. _Just when I think I'm done…_ "She said it was the most beautiful song she ever heard."

Hobbes was scrubbing away, but I barely knew he was there; I was far, far away, eyes glazed with the mists of remembrance, unseeing. "She always had _time_ for people, too, hold up something important or halt in the middle of something that needed close attention, and listen to someone list all their worries. A little kid, a single mom, a little old person. She'd sit there and give them her ears and her heart, and make time for them. She called herself a 'christian in atheist's clothing'. That always befuddled dad to no end. Heh."

I keep going like that- masochist that I am- and on, and on, remembering every detail that I can. I can still remember her face, her voice, the touch of her hand on mine, her ringing laughter. It's wrong, and yet somehow makes some kind of sense- because I know that as long as I can remember, I'm at least a little safe. A little safe a little longer.

I snap to, checking the time. _Holy-_ It was already five freaking thirty two! Gosh, how in the world did it get that late? I leapt to my feet and ran down the stairs. I had a plan, but it hinged on my dad _not being here_. Which meant I had to _be on time…_

I am so glad we got ketchup.

* * *

I poked Sans.

"C'mon, bonehead. I gotta talk to you about something."

No reaction. I poked him again. "I'll throw a sock at you?"

Nada. Third time. "I made you a ketchup sandwich."

"mnf."

"Saaaaaaannsss. Please wake up. Please?"

"i just came for the sandwiches. i didn't sign anything about weird timespace shenanigans like this."

"Did you read the small print? You're always supposed to read the small print."

"heh. nope. that's it." He blinks an eye open. "'sup, kid."

"Ceiling, troposphere, maybe some cloud, jetstream, stratosphere, mesosphere, thermosphere, a bunch of space junk, and then the depths of outer space." I crouch down. "But I expect you're interested in the ketchup sandwich."

"mm." He takes the plate, gingerly setting it on the floor like maybe it will explode if he's not careful enough. "but really. just patella me the truth; what's up?"

"Um." I start tracing circles in the carpet. "Sorry for you to have woken up to me pestering you, but… I just- I'm, like, a gold-medal athlete when it comes to avoiding things, and I just figured maybe we could get most of the questions out of the way tonight? Before my tiny shred of courage runs away again?"

He sits there for a moment. I fumble. "Because, um, it's a conversation we'd both rather not be having and I just figured that- if you don't want, it's fine- It's, it's just I-"

He grunts and swipes a negative gesture through the air, cutting me off. "nah. i get your logic. i relish the fact that we can together mustard the strength to taco 'bout… eh. i ran out of sauce. i'll ketchup later."

I winced. "Ouch. That was a little lacking in tact."

"hey, if you wanted tact, ya should have called in colonel mustard."

"Owww," I groan. "Stop. Just. Stop right there. Continue no further down that fell path. You're taking us off track."

"sorry, what? i didn't catch that. mayonnaise you speak up?"

"It's may you speak up," I say firmly past my grimace, "And if you don't stop I'll stuff your eyesockets full of marshmallows."

Said eyesockets widen. "you wouldn't."

"Try me," I growl. "Now. Twenty small questions, six deep questions, and you can't just call small questions deep because you're too lazy to do anything else."

"thanks for the idea."

I scowl at him halfheartedly. A grin identical to his own is fluttering underneath. "No lying, and you can call three save-for-laters, which means you answer it later. And actually answer it later. No buts, no cuts, no coconuts. Now we fist bump."

I hold out my fist. He misses the first time- deliberately, I can see his smile get a little wider at my huff- and then hits my knuckles with an unexpected _pop_! I yelp. There's tattered remnants of a tiny yellow balloon on his knuckles. "How?! That definitely wasn't there before!"

He smirks. "one small answer to go: maaaaaagiiic."

"You know- Ugh. I give up. You're the prank master."

"i had no idea there was ever a competition in the first place."

"Ha. There wasn't." I pause to think for a moment. "What's your favorite color?"

He looks incredulous. "nn?"

"I asked you a question, dork."

"uh. blue i guess?"

"Don't just leave it hanging like that. I gotta have a valid reason here!" I protest.

"i dunno. because- blue is echo flowers? and the color of the sky? and just… 'cause blue."

I nod, satisfied. "Okay, then. Your turn."

"... why…" I perk up. A deep question?

"why did the froggit cross the road?"

I have to think long and hard. "Because it had a warrant?"

"nope. to get to the other side."

"That was officially the worst one yet."

"knock knock."

I give him a withering look. "Who is it _now_?"

"the froggit."

You could probably hear me groan from the Russia/Alaska border. "Ask a real question, please."

"where were ya at lunch?"

Wow.

This is just.

"Pfff," I snort. "Real slick. I went- Dad and I-" I throw my hands in the air because I can't even _bleeding talk_ \- "We visited Mom's grave!

He just kind of sits there. "M-moving on now! What's your favorite number?"

"why would i have a favorite number. that's so **point** less."

"No it's not! Favorite numbers are very important, they- wait. Was that a pun?"

He grins. "i don't know, was it?"

"You're just impossible." I think for a second. "My favorite number is twelve, because it has six factors and when squared, all the digits are factors of twelve. Your turn. I think."

"'kay." A silence grows, one I feel should probably be tense, except I don't know what to be tense about. Then he says, carefully, "what did you mean earlier by "humans whose job is to be scared'?"

Crud.

Of course he had to ask that.

Curse you and your keen mind, Sans.

"huh?" Great. Even better. I must've said that last part aloud. Greeeeaaat.

"Okay. So, you know the Royal Guard, right? And, I don't know, all the rest of that? Sentries and stuff? Well, um, us humans have something like that, too, except we've had way more resources and space- ha, literally in some cases- and motive for forming things like that. And we're stubborn, and we have an absurdly gargantuan population, and, um, stuff like that… So a bunch of humans decided that they wanted to make sure they were safe. And, heck, they definitely probably started out with mostly pure intentions, but then some people overseas started getting powerful. I mean, crazy powerful. And… Oh, buggery, I can't remember what happened next. Gimme a second-" I hop up and start poking through my bookshelves. "Oh, come on, I swear it was there not five days back… Aha!" I hold up my triumph; a thick history textbook.

"Kay, so I'm going to start at about the War of 1812. So, there's two major temperate continental masses, one in the Western Hemisphere-" grunt as I open the textbook-" and one in the East. A bunch of humans who called themselves Englishmen found that, lo and behold, not only was the earth round but there was a whole 'nother landmass out there, dubbed America at some point in time (This is where you are right now, fyi). So… " I flip it to a specific page, one with a couple of maps- one of the Americas made in the 1500s, and a modern one on the next page. "A bunch of people who were feeling like some major religious freedom crossed the Atlantic ocean and reached the Americas. Eventually, almost everyone _else_ in Europe felt like coming over, and the people who ruled Europe got ticked off. One thing led to several other petty things, which led to a declaration of war from America.

"After the War- which we, the Americans, won- and a rocky start, people settled down somewhat and focused on making America America. Most of the Army was formed during that time, and kept up in case something like 1812 occurred again. Which it did, of course- the Civil war, World War Two, et cetera." I heaved a sigh, leaning over the book. "The army is supposed to make sure this country is safe- and believe me when I say they aren't prone to being merciful. They have other people to do that. And completely unknown-to-mankind-stuff like you, bonehead, isn't going to make them happy. They've gotten all kinds of terrifying things in their arsenal, so don't go ordering pizza because chances are the pizza boy is going to put your lovely face up on social media. Which will spell the end for you, with a capital En." I close the book, holding it up and waving it around for emphasis. "Now, there's a lot of squiggly parts and knots, but that's what this thing is for, so if you get really bored, read it. But mostly, just… Stay safe I guess? Because everyone has a phone these days, with a camera."

Gosh, I can't remember the last time I rambled so long. Sans is staring at- no, now he's looking at the book. Something strikes me out of the blue; all their textbooks… Came from the dump. Which means they'd been through book hell and back. Water, acidic water, pointy stuff in the acidic water to tear at pages and bend spines. It legitimately almost makes me cry.

I try to turn to cheerier topics. "So on a rather unrelated note, what's your favorite book?"

He's got that Look again- the vaguely uncomfortable one, with a bit of unreadable mixed in. "i, uh, don't have a favorite book."

"... You don't have. A Favorite Book."

"that's what i said."

I feel my jaw drop. "Dude. You _have_ to have a favorite book. How about classics? H. G. Wells? War of the Worlds? Journey to the Center of the Earth? Fahrenheit 451? _Nothing?_ Oh, gosh. This is atrocious." I get up, again, to peruse my books. This trip takes considerably less longer than before. "Okay, considering your culture is much different from humans'- I think- you might not enjoy these as much as I did, but I'm afraid you're going to have to forgive me, because I can't really find all that much well-written science fiction. This is Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and _this_ beauty is What If?, Serious Scientific Answers To Absurd Hypothetical Questions. I think you will enjoy it _tremendously_." I set down the novels and pat them. "This is your unofficial homework. And before I ramble any more, ask me a question."

He frowns at the books for awhile before asking quietly, "what do you think of me?"

And again, he stops me in my tracks. Truly, this is a night of surprises.

"I don't know. Perhaps… Perhaps a better question would be how much I know."

"then how much do you know?"

He's not defiant. This is Sans I'm talking about, he's given up on everything but his brother, remember? He looks… tired. Without hope. He's not scared either. He's just…

Drained. A pile of dust with a smile pasted on.

"I…" Sweet cheese, where on Earth do I even start? "I know too much, and not enough. I haven't seen every outcome, but… I wanted to, so what does that make me? I was given the ability to strip away consequences like old paint, make the world anew, to never die. It was just a game, after all, what did it matter? Just zeroes and ones, just lines of code, just pixels on a screen. What did it matter if I killed everyone? Even if they did exist, I could just-" I slam a fist on the floor, infuriated with myself- " _start over_. Hell, they wouldn't even remember! I was one of those people who examined every nook and cranny I could wedge my character into. I was _careful_ , I- I systematically pried everything apart. If I could have chosen everything at once, I would have done that. I was testing the waters, poking things to see what they'd do, and it was okay, because if I dusted that snowdrake on accident, I could just click a button and everything would be back to normal." I take a moment to restore my voice. "I did the most average routes- a Pacifist, a few of the Neutral routes, A Genocide, a No Mercy, and two True Pacifist. It's never really certain exactly how much of the Resets you remember, but it's definite that you do. There's… Amalgamates in the True Lab, and… Well." I give a little laugh. "You two were the most mysterious people in the game, you and Papyrus. You just- up and asserted yourselves one day, out of the blue, in Snowdin. But, umm…" Ah, what was it…? "I'm a legendary fartmaster."

Sans' eyebrows (come on, I have no idea, stop asking me) rose to an astronomical height. "welp. i guess that answers my question. you are really immature."

"Hey! I'm not-" My mind flashed an image of what I'd just said. "O-okay, so maybe that was-" He starts sniggering. "Hey! This isn't funny!"

"no, you're right," he gasps, "it's hilarious!"

"You have a terrible habit of trying to convince everyone you're alright by cracking jokes at your expense," I say flatly.

"you know you're smiling, right?"

I change the subject. "Why do you even drink ketchup, anyway?"

"why not?"

"Because you could drink tea."

Sans gags. "yech, no. leave the weird fruity sludge to someone else."

"Coffee?" I try.

"half the stuff that falls is disgusting, and a tenth of the stuff that's not actually tastes like coffee. luxury commodity."

"That's terrible!" I exclaim, looking aghast.

"tell me about it."

Oops, bitter subject. "Your turn."

"What did one skeleton say to the other?"

"... I've got your back?"

He chuckles a little. I have to squash down an absurd spiral of glee. "good, but no. it's 'i've got a bone to pick with you.'"

Okay… why do you always wear that one jacket? You have to have something else, the possibility of you owning another jacket somewhere in your chaotic room is way too high."

He puts a hand to his chest. "ouch, that cut me to the bone," he complains with a false-hurt expression on his soft-edged face. "your room isn't exactly a beauty, you know." He leans forward conspiratorially; "however, i did clone this jacket. i have six more somewhere."

" _Where_ somewhere?"

"i'd tell ya, but i'd have to kill ya."

"Fiiiiine, Mr. Mysterious. Your turn."

"you said 'completely unknown to mankind' earlier."

I get the feeling I know where this is going. It's not a nice feeling. "Yep. That I did."

He pins me with a gimlet stare. I stare back. Chills start racing up my spine and back down again. My eyes begin burning. And then I realize something vital (ahaha);

Sans doesn't need to blink.

…

Did I ever say that I can be really stupid?

Yeah, I figured.

"Fine, okay," I groan. "I'll try to make this painless. Either monsters literally didn't exist before whatsit thingy happened, or nobody remembers you, because I think our technology would be better. Yes?"

Sans stares at the- wait. He doesn't need to blink, which means he stares at everything. Stupid stupid dumb. Nevertheless, he stares at the ketchup sandwich. "sure."

I feel like I need to say something. "Sorry" slips off my tongue before I even think about it.

Something in his face twitches. "stop doing that."

I blink. "What?"

"stop _apologizing_ like that." He shrugs his hood over his face, but I can still feel him glowering at the sandwich like it personally insulted his lineage. My subconscious starts worrying about it; if he gazes any harder at the poor thing, he'll start toasting the bread from sheer will. "you're not supposed to feel sorry. you're not supposed to feel guilty. you're- youre-"

My brain grinds to a halt. I'm angry, and I'm not sure why- because anger is easy to feel?- and then I get even more angry, because I think I know why he's acting like this.

It isn't quick- there's no lightbulb. It's just… a bunch of little things connect, finally.

"I'm what? Supposed to be human? Do you know something, _Comic Sans?_ I'm going to apologize, and apologize some more, because I'm not some mindless destruction machine. I'm largely aware of my mistakes, thankyouverymuch, and I regret many of them. And you wanna know why I regret them? Because I was aware of my choices." There's a deep seated fury in my voice, but I make sure it's cold, and that the waves don't toss my boat against a sandbar, because I'm really, really quiet and mumbly and- as frankly ashamed as I am to admit it- the anger makes me enunciate **way** better.

"I know you would just love to live under a rock and bar yourself off, but that's a bad idea. I know that's a bad idea because I did that, and still am to some shameful extent, and by the four dimensions known to man, I'm going to clear up why that's a bad idea and how hard I'm going to throw a nectarine at your head if and when you do that." I jab a finger at his surprised face. "One. Barring yourself is distancing yourself, is basically what LOVE is. I'm _not_ about to sit here and let you do that to yourself any longer. And two-" I throw my hands up in the air- "Like, what the actual hell! I mean heck! What was it that trapped you guys underground again? Racism! What are you practising? Racism! Racism is a disgusting, poorly named, entirely hereditary _thing_ and good lord, I'm not going to have that under my roof, **buster**. Three- Imma turn that poor fruit into sauce, and there will be a dent the size of hobbes in your head. So cut it out." I sag. "And in case you have any doubt, _I_ said _all that_ because I'm _worried about you_ and it really _drives_ me _up_ the _flipping wall_ when people don't take me seriously. SO. We are going to TREAT each other like COMPLETELY CIVILIZED PEOPLE instead of STEREOTYPES. Period. End of rant. Done. No buts." I plop to the floor. "Now, if you aren't going to actually eat that sandwich I'll put it in the fridge because lukewarm ketchup is disgusting."

He's still watching me. I glance behind me to make sure there isn't, say, a clown smiling over my shoulder, or maybe a mime (which is almost as bad). "What?"

He takes a few seconds to reboot. "you don't normally do this, do you?"

"Rave for that long? No. Not since my best friend Chloe left."

"you did this to your friend."

"Obviously. I cared about her health. Sandwich?"

His eyebrows start rappelling down. "... i guess not."

"Good. I'm going to make a mug of tea. Shout if you want some."

I start going down the stairs, completely ignoring the look on his face. It's the most confused I've seen him yet, which is saying a lot, considering.

And I _still_ have to tell him about Gaster.

* * *

i- but no comment on the third person. Hmmmm. I wonder… Nah, he's just still half asleep and dreaming.

* * *

 **Poor Sans. Once he was a young hopeful skelle who wanted to be friends with most everyone. AND THEN UNDERTALE HAPPENED WHOOPS**

 **Special thanks to MachUPB, without whom I probably wouldn't even have noticed the fact that racism shouldn't be called racism, because blacks and whites and hispanics and the many different eurasians and first americans and everybody else in between are homo sapiens. We aren't a different race, guys. Wake up.**

 **Imma go write some more lol. Thanks for reading!**


	7. Chapter 7

**God I hate this chapter. It's just late filler. Arrrrgh  
**

 **BUT! The next chapter will be looooong.  
**

 **Onto reveiws, because ya'll are asking some good questions. :3**

 **TrainerFiona:** Hey you didn't kill Hobbes! I'm so proud of you Sans! And hello Brackets, how are you? *Eh-em (how do you actually spell the sound that comes wheny ou clear your throat?) Anyways... on to important buisness! I would like to tell you that I loved this chapter (and probably all the future ones too, now that I think about it...) and loved all the silly qurstions too. But. There are two important questions I feel you either forgot, didn't think of, or intentionally didn't put in this chapter.

1\. When the Monsters are released,how deal with this pregidous and dangous world where the humans are going to be at the very least, scared of monsters.

2\. How did Sans get out of the game and how did it force their two worlds together?Well thats all I can think of! See ya later! P. for noticing me!

 **[Hi. Doing pretty well, thanks. Life is good and all.]**

 **1\. It's going to be slow and painful. Since I'm bad at strategy and worse at p** **olitics, I'm not going to get very specific. A human ambassador will help, a** **nd of course Jean can guilt everyone about stuff like how badly America t** **reated the blacks and first Americans. "This is a chance to redeem y** **ourselves, to show that you can change for the better" etc, etc. They d** **efinitely won't be able to refuse with the media doing their job: the various n** **ews networks will leap on the government like wolves if they start e** **xhibiting distasteful attitudes towards the monsters. Being sapient and h** **aving a bunch of cool gadgets, a king who likes flowers, an incredibly n** **ervous Royal Scientist who's infatuated with anime, and magic healing food a** **re also some major plusses, and oh yeah that one ginormous geothermal e** **nergy plant called the CORE (:D) only madmen say no to free green energy.**

 **2\. I'll get to that. I have a really evil idea (=w=) ...**

 **Pandaxoom:** This is awesome. I love it. Sans isn't even that out of character, but more puns would be nice. Is Dad gonna find out about Sans? Is someone else gonna spot Sans? Please don't stay up late if it is stopping you from writing, you need and deserve sleep. BYE

 ***gasp* you're too kind! And Sans isn't All that out of character?!**

 **YESSSSS**

 **More puns you say? I can try that. Heheheh**

 **Q 1: I can honestly say without a doubt that I will answer that literally in the ne** **xt few chapters. Although, considering how long they are, it might be five. I** **ts in the plot and everything.**

 **Q 2: you're just going too have to wait and see~**

 **Thank you for worrying. I deserve sleep? Is this flattery?**

 **Joannabear43:** I think I might be a little addicted to this...

 **Mission Accomplished!**

 **SquareRootOf-1:** Like all the chapters before it, I think this one was perfectly paced and well-characterized. I didn't see anybody out of character in this chapter. It was a blend of funny and emotional, which I think you did really well. Keep it up!

 **(I can't find the answer to this! Ack! Thank you anyway, you're very nice. O** **wO)**

 **Also there's a new person joining us I didn't answer. Say hello to c** **atsareawesome. Thank you all so much!**

* * *

Jean puts the sandwich in the fridge. We're going to take advantage of the time-distorting cold, and watch as the ketchup soaks into the bread, because the next twenty minutes aren't really of much concern- idle conversation- and if the creator uses the quotation mark key any more-

 **Brackets! What did I say about interfering with the story?**

[What?]

 **You know very well what. Narrating like that is taboo.**

[Fine. It's still very accurate that using the quotation mark key much more will make it give out.]

… **Touche.**

So the reader's attention focuses on the ketchup sandwich, as the bread dries out slightly where bared to the cold, dry air of the refrigerator and the ketchup slowly soaks into the bread and congeals. The tenant- Heinz ketchup on honey oat bread- tries to shrink towards the back, where cottage cheese, sour cream, a tub of applesauce, fourteen eggs in a styrofoam 18-egg carton and half an onion huddle together in wary, chilly silence away from the door, which has several shelves of various condiments. It's not the hot fudge, butterscotch, dijon mustard, relish, strawberry syrup, ketchup or mayonnaise the leftovers were anxious about; rather it is the soy sauce, Tabasco sauce, marmalade and especially a highly suspicious-looking jar of elderly basil pesto that causes the perishables to quake in their containers. Much to the chagrin of the chocolate and strawberry syrup-who were exchanging sappy (syrupy) love notes thanks to their close proximity, the refrigerator door opened; two Dominoes boxes, long leached of any warmth, were removed by hand; the milk later reported them screaming, "No! Please, No! I don't want to be eaten!"

Then again, it _was_ the milk. Scrubbing dishes was one of the most tedious chores next to laundry. Tedious meant one could think easily, and with six different self-maintained debates raging in my head at once I was starting to think this was a bad thing. What did Sans _really_ think of me? Could I manipulate Frisk from afar with the game? How was everyone in the Underground doing? Did they remember Sans, or had he disappeared from existence like Gaster? How had the shutdown of my computer interfered with everything? Most importantly, should I ask for someone's advice or help? I lied. This wasn't a debate so much as a fruitless worrying what with all the variables.

(God, I hate variables.)

There was a crunching of rocks, in between tires and asphalt. I snapped my head around frantically with an oh-fudge-did-I-forget-something-instinct with essence of Dad's Coming Home And There's A Monster Living (sleeping) In My Room.

… This was going to become a habit, wasn't it.

Dad whooshed in for the second time, chilly rags defiantly clinging to his sweater in a last-ditch attempt to survive the killing warmth and small eddies shaking their fists as if to say, "One day, it will be winter! I swear it!" Hobbes nipped in before the door slammed shut, streaking past and thundering up the stairs as though a pack of car salesmen was after his blood. I wiped off my wet hands- wet from doing a sink of dishes- on a towel and said, "Hey, dad. Traffic?"

"Not atypical," he winced. Traffic was killer right around five and would _not_ let up until six, or even six-thirty. The joys of living nearby the city, it seemed, although conveniently close to school and various stores. Definitely not handy when it came to hiding, say, a sapient and cunning creature who could slam you to a wall and char your flesh with either terrible puns or laser fire.

"Well, I'm doing some dishes, but other than that, absolutely nothing. Loads of fun."

"... Jean, I don't have anything to wear tomorrow."

Dad. Why. "Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

"I told you to do the laundry yesterday."

Flapjacks. My face scrunches into one regretful wrinkle. "... I knew that."

Dad throws another Look- this time at the cieling- and says, "Do your chores."

I rip off a crisp salute; "Yes, _sir_ , permission to finish the dishes, _sir_!"

His mouth twitches a little. (Score!) "Permission denied."

"Sir yes sir!" Wiping my hands on a towel, I trotted into the entry hall and up the stairs. When I peek into my room, Hobbes is sprawled smugly across a snoozing Sans.

"Cheeky fuzzball," I mutter at the lump. "You're laying on top of that poor guy _e_ _xplicitly because_ he doesn't like cats, aren't you."

Hobbes says, "Mrrup."

"I agree. His loss."

Walk past my doorway to Dad's, nip in and grab the laundry basket. Walk past my room aaaand nope? Alright, my legs are now acting without consent of my brain. Thanks, legs, go right ahead, no of course I don't mind… now what are you doing? ... Okay, sure, loiter in my doorway, that's perfectly alright with me…

Pff. _Purr_ fectly.

…

I blame Sans.

Hobbes gives me that "Hey, dummy, you're supposed to be petting me" look all cats have while I frowned speculatively at Sans.

What the _actual h#ll._

A skeleton- I'm sorry, I mean _magica_ _l_ skeleton- pops out of a mirror (a mirror in the _fl_ _ipping basement_ , old enough to probably have actual silver in it somewhere) three hundred sixty-five convenient days after my- my mother's _death_ five days before FLIPPING ALL HALLOW'S EVE and is now sleeping underneath my cat in my BEDROOM. I don't know why I'm just now getting hit by this, but I am and it's hitting hard.

Just. This literally sounds like some kind of half-baked fanfiction.

This is so- dangit, I'm just a weird messed up human being who is flawed and I freaking _cannot do this_ with _my_ luck Sans will end up _dusted, I can't do this, I can't I c_ _an't it's hopeless_ -

Nope. Nope, nope, nopin' right out of this situation. Deep breaths, keep going, there are things to be done.

Man, it has been forever since that happened.

Guess my luck ran out.

* * *

Nothing much interesting happened for a while. Laundry was done, dished were finished, counters were wiped, floors were swept, and last-minute homework (math, blargh) was fretted over. Oh, yeah, and I incessantly worried, thought about and/or fretted over a certain bag of bones who was a very hapless tenant of my house. That too.

It is _so weird_ , how suddenly hyperaware one becomes when someone else is staying the night in one's room. You have to change in the bathroom, dress in more than a shirt and underwear to sleep, and the list just keeps going.

So. I had to pull on some actual pajamas (GASP!), in the bathroom (DOUBLE GASP!), have another, smaller philosophical realization, (joy) and then I fretted like a parent with all of her children at the front lines of WWII over what I should do because dear _G_ _od_ Sans was in my _room_ and he flipping _despised me._

…

I think.

I mean, I literally deserve it anyway? Killing peoples' brothers is generally regarded as uh. Egregious to the power of dreadful, buuuuuuuuut I don't think any of these charac- _people_ even existed before all this-

Hey wait.

I definitely didn't do this, right?

… No. I would have realized.

Then _who?_

Gaster? Chara? Both have, um, _displayed_ bizarre tendencies to overlook the laws of practically everything so, maybe?

Well, if I think any more then I will stay up past 11:00pm whether or not I wish to do so. Sighing through my nose, I spit out toothpaste-and-saliva foam into the sink and turn off the water. Trying to kneecap my thoughts proves to be frustrating and slow work, lasting through a goodnight peck to and from Dad and all the way up the stairs.

Where I stop.

Slowly walk down the landing to my room.

Into my room. Come on legs, it's not that hard! My left knee begs to differ. I scowl at it until it starts working again; chastised, it ferries me to my bed.

I slide under my covers. They're chilly, but my face is on fire.

Ohhhhhh God.

The grouchy realist in my head harrumphs something along the lines of, "He's a depressed monster who's biggest interest is his brother, further heightened by an intense and eternal sense of paranoia, which _in turn_ is caused by post-traumatic stress _and_ _quite possibly_ depersonalisation disorder from _you_. You have no reason to be embarrassed. Get. Over. It." I listened to it, I really did. Except for my cheeks. Thank you teen hormones, remind me to throttle you tomorrow…

Ten minutes of thinking in _meep_ s, listening to Sans breathing (?!), of staring at the ceiling and listening to cars passing by.

Then I finally started to loosen up.

An indefinite unit of time later, my world was written in nothing but dreams.

* * *

 **Guess what I forgot?**

 **I.**

 **HAVE.**

 **OVER TWO THOUSAND VIEWS.**

 ***ETERNAL SCREAMING***

 **Lemme know of any typos, grammatical errors, canonical divergences, plot holes or pickles. Have a great day/night!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Most of this was written very late at night, so it's incredibly wordy. Please, for the love of mustard, USE A DICTIONARY if you don't know the definition of a word. Thank you, two guests, whoever you are, for commenting. They make my day. :3**

 **I may be able to type at home...? There is a chromebook I may/ may not be able to use. Also! Brackets makes an appearance! *clap clap clap***

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

It's dark. Really dark. The digital clock on the night table reads 12:57. There's two people breathing in the room; one is steady, regular and shallow, and the other is deeper and purposefully silent.

The owner of the latter breathing pattern rises and stalks across the room. You have to make just the right amount of noise for nighttime sneaking; too much and they know something's out there, too little and every little creak sounds deliberate.

Sans is snagged by the window. He looks up at the sky, feeling the cold pooling in the air next to the glass and sinking.

Ha. The sky. Here he was, the only monster out of the Underground, looking at the _sky_. Whooda thunk it.

…

Papyrus should be here.

He swept the thought away without blinking. A few bright stars and a waxing crescent moon shone through a gauzy curtain of cloud. Light pollution dulled the darkness to a shade of yellow-gray off to the - what was that? West? Northwest? Car headlights a block away outshone various windows and outdoor lights scattered across the landscape like chips of mica, and he dragged his starving gaze back to where he was.

The huma- _Jean_ (it felt uncomfortable to even think her name) was curled in a loose fetal position on her left side. This was going to be a bit awkward. Sans wafted past the window, closer to the bed, to place his left hand in the air half a foot away and parallel to her sternum; a little flick of the wrist, and-

Something slid out. Heart shaped and wrong side up, the nigh-unfathomable beauty of SOUL color chased its mundane counterpart, abashed and shabby, to the very edge of his peripheral vision. His left eye flickered, stung, and settled into its familiar, bitterly nostalgic burn. He wished, idly and not for the first time, that his eye shone at a higher wavelength. Blue had the uncanny ability to strip away shadows like lies, disturbing darkness that had minded its own business for years.

He didn't do this often. Not because he didn't have enough magic, you understand. Ahahahaha, stars, anything _but_. Peering into SOULs without their consent made them unsettled, and boy did they let you know about it. A red-alert level-eleven security breach made one steely eyed and stubborn; SOULs would all but blatantly boot you out. It gave one an intense feeling of unfounded angst plus a healthy dose of would-you-look-at-the-time.

At times like these, under circumstances like these, it was definitely worth the trouble.

A SOUL (shaped just like theirs) jam-packed with vibrant life hovers in the air. This was the beginning of the tricky part.

Gently, gently, he surrounded the SOUL with his magic, giving it a small, light tap here and there, testing the sound and defenses. When Sans had done this before, a maybe and a half ago, just before he had broken a promise into smithereens, Their SOUL hadn't hummed or buzzed or even sang; it had _shrieked_ like a cat being tuned with guitar pegs. This…

This just sounded a bit echoey. A normal level of abnormal. Safe.

He almost pulled away in disgust. What had he expected? The SOUL of a mass murderer? A mage? A demon? This was just-just a random kid that thought in weird shapes, who played video games, who was probably going through the however-many stages of grief.

But he kept going. That one little part of him that didn't believe in random kids and coincidence, that kept trying- trying to find the magic number, trying to figure out the sense behind the universe, trying to _really_ smile, trying to trust.

Damn. If there was ever a part of him most likely sent from the seventh sublevel of Hades, it was this one. Definitely this one.

Her SOUL was predominantly green. Not crayon green. Green achieved when you put three parts Flowey-the-flower-yellow and two parts unfettered twilight blue in a jar with half a handful of ball bearings and shook like crazy. Rich navy blue bloomed upwards and outwards, making lichen-like patterns on the surface. Sans estimated it had been there seven years, if not less. Galaxies of pollen yellow were sprinkled here and there, hinting at deeper growth if given time. So. Primary trait Kindness, secondary Integrity, tertiary justice.

Stats next.

 **LV: 1**

 **HP: 20**

 **DF: 10.5**

 **AT: 10**

* _GO DEEPER._

… The _#$*^,_ kid, what is wrong with- you have got to be kid(heh)ding me.

LV 1. To be expected. And what was with the EXP? Everybody knew the whole _EXP: LV ratio was sound.

… Okay, but really, what the _hell_ was up with the SOUL projection phrase? "Go deeper" in caps? It was like an SOS thingamajig.

… No.

 _No_ , he was NOT.

Cat paws dimly thundered up the stairs in the background.

An entertaining self-sustained debate raged on for a bit before the winner emerged victorious. It lasted seconds, but it was vicious.

Sans made a needle-and-thread from his magic, stitching together threads like candyfloss, and flicked the makeshift contraption through the SOUL wall. Perhaps a little tougher than normal, but that only gave proof of the heightened DF, not why it was so.

Somewhat reluctantly, he waded slowly deeper, passing yellow and dark blue until green coated everything. It was like drowning in superfluous paint.

Then the probe hit a wall of white. He nosed around the area, curiosity piqued. This was new. White had all the colors of the rainbow. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet; the same went for human SOULs and their traits. Monsters started out with white magic; it would darken into one of the seven colors by roughly adulthood. While their aptitude was normally only for one type, they could become more adept at others. Perhaps human SOULs were the same…?

He spent a while, motionless and lost in thought, before tugging the probe around to leave.

 _Thonk._

By sheer coincidence, the shard of magic had tapped the core. Lured by feline (and hypothetically deadly) levels of curiosity, Sans tapped it again.

 _Thonk._

It was soft and muted, but unmistakable hollow as a drum. His expression shifted. A hollow core. How-

 _No._ There was that different part of him the cautious, suspicious one. _You,_ it notified him bossily, _have done quite enough snooping today, thank you, there is absolutely_ no telling _how long this has taken. Going further would be pushing your luck._

And yet.

And yet.

Also known as, woe unto anyone who tries stopping Sans' insatiable curiosity, including himself.

He flicked the probe through the white barrier, his intent giving it the edge it needed to break through.

What happened next was very fast.

The white swallowed the shard of magic, string quivering uneasily. A warning in retrospect, the first of many. It dropped away almost too quickly to observe anything, but Sans' subconscious- vigilant even after all this time- noted the way it became increasingly spotty and bedraggled, reminiscent of a front line in a skirmish or war, before…

Well.

What is nothing?

A vacuum? Even the far reaches of the Final Frontier have the occasional molecule or atom, a ray or so of radiation. Black holes have density and thus matter, and, well, nobody knows what the butt black matter is made out of, but "matter" is in the title. If you spontaneously appeared in the middle of space with absolutely no velocity, neither breathing nor boiling nor freezing nor really living at all, you would _still_ move- infinitessimally so, but you would move. In a place utterly devoid of anything anywhere at all, the only thing that makes you move is you.

What Sans' probe fell into was nothing, _really_ nothing, and for something with no force in it, a vacuum was REALLY volatile. For a monster to put their magic in such a thing was like a human nicking their jugular and stuffing it into a very, very efficient vacuum.

Sans shifted into full-on, panicked reverse, trying desperately to pull back in a maneuver that, he could safely say, landed among 'the top six most terrifying experiences of my life' category. Half of his magic was lost in milliseconds.

Shaking and huffing, his instincts hustled him out of Jean's SOUL and back into her bedroom, death-gripping a bedpost with his right hand. His left joined the party ASAP, painted wood squeaking uncomfortably as the bone tried with some sucsess to carve indents into the headboard.

A series of images paraded themselves across the cluttered wall of his mind as the SOUL slipped back, and color returned. Normal Jean, smiling, scowling, smirking, frowning, engaged and speculative; then Jean when she was shaken, and the realization of how quickly she'd bounced back.

Sans gagged.

She hadn't bounced back.

This… his mind was crawling. This was unholy. This was _real._ If his hypothesis-making skills were still up to even the sloppiest of standards, then he'd bet gold that this affliction had been effective for a year.

 _How much had she loved her?_ The little poetic part of him wondered. _How far had she fallen, if she was in so much pain she had carved a flipping_ abyss _in the centeriof her SOUL?_

Heck, it'd hurt when Pap had died the first few times. It'd hurt enough that he wanted to die too, because they were brothers, they were supposed to be together. So his SOUL had tried to replicate it. To protect him from further harm or to fulfill his wishes, he didn't know, but whatever it was, it was one heck of a painkiller. It hurt less, gradually, hour by hour, number and number until it… just didn't feel _anything_. Humor, misery, pride, disgust, love, all gone. Poof. Dissappeared. Except for anger. Anger was easy- just find something, blame it for everything, and you could keep going like a machine until it was obliterated.

God knew They hadn't left him without a reason to hate.

Darkness plagued him the entire time he tried to sink into sleep, a potent mixture of the literal shadows wreathing this half of the globe, and a murkier, darker solution made by combining the new terror of what had just happened and memories of red and gold; further back, endless, blurred time jumps, and someone cackling, "you're nothing more than a stupid smiley trashbag"...

* * *

It was a bright and sunny afternoon.

Dappled sunlight patterned the leaf-strewn ground. Birdsong pealed through the trees. Water burbled merrily nearby. Rough bedrock outcrops stabbed gently up towards the sky, like worn, mossy teeth. A roof of yellowing hickory leaves, a score of feet high and half as thick, sheltered my head; underneath a crackling blanket of fallen leaves was an old dirt path, exposed by many feet. The air smelled musty and wet, like dry soil that had been stormed upon and left to bake in an oven for a few hours. Squirrels chased each other, both ground and grey, for the sake of a few nuts. Happy chatter drifted through the trees behind me, sighing overhead in the occasional breeze.

I knew this place.

It was a family outing. Mom had taken us to some woods, to get some sketches in for a few paintings she wanted to make. It had been awhile since we had all gone, so I had been totally thrilled. No doubt that hot chocolate had helped.

"Hhh-! Look at thiiis! Ohmigosh look it's so coool!"

I turned around.

 _& *$#._

Me. A younger, smaller me, with as much cynacism as Monster Kid and brighter, more cheerful clothing, even though it felt like a millenia were between us. Currently, Younger Me was gushing over an outrageously fluffy caterpillar. My bushy hair- longer then, or was it now?- was plled back into a ponytail, and for some reason, my eyes just… looked unspecifically _better_.

"Dad dad dad! Come and seee!"

Dad. With much less gray and his hair and far fewer frown lines, wearing an un-briar-friendly sweater and looking out of his element without something to tinker with. "Jean Jean Jean, if you aren't careful you'll wear out my name. What _is_ this?" He bent over alittle, interested yet mildly baffled with all the fuss.

"It's an incredibly hirsute caterpillar! I gotta show mom!" Younger Me raised her voice. "MOOOOM!"

I turn, transfixed and horrified but unable to stop, to the person I know is there.

Tiny. Pale-skinned with a few smears of paint here and there from her latest painting. Green eyed, with thin fingers- _my_ fingers- brushing aside wavy, dark hair from a face that smiles like the sun.

 _Her_.

Younger Me runs to her, grabs her elbow, and drags her to the tree, yammering like a pixie about adorable fluffy invertebrates. My knees buckle. I can't breathe. I lean on a tree for support.

The crystal clear memory of Her is enough to spark a foolish, wound-deep hope of _She's back and everything will be okay now_ and no matter how hard I try to smother it the waterfall sensation won't stop, stop it I **hate this** **-**

The world twitches like a pockmarked record before resuming.

"I think I know something adorabler than your fluff bug~" She sang, bent down only a little to reach my height. Younger Me pouts briefly; "MOM. It's MORE ADORABLE. Not ' _adorabler_ '."

She grins. I feel something crack from the pain, like a rib shattering but _worse_. "Then you don't want to see a newt?"

Younger Me loses it, inhaling so much at once I would have fallen over if I were anyone else. Dad gives an amused little nose twitch. You two. It's just a reptile, for heaven's sakes."  
"It's not a reptile it's an amphibian and they're competely ADORABLE MY GOSH." She bounces up and down, caterpillar now abandoned. "Take me!"

She snaps off a salute, smiling still- "Yes, ma'am!" - and tromps off towards the foaming stream, Younger Me close on her trail. Dad chuckles a little before following, threading a path past brambles and various thorny patches.

I turn away. I know what happens next, I don't want to relive this a fourth time. I didn't want any of this, why am I dreaming this _nightmare_ -

I halt.

I can't turn around.

I pinch my arm repeatedly. I don't wake up. My surroundings remain the same.

A wave of- of what exactly? I can't even tell what's beneath all the expetives beyond 'I don't want to feel this again' and 'screw you too, masochistic conciousness'. I try to kick the air in front of me in a petty act of defiance to end up staggering backwards. I snarl and whirl around. "FINE!"

A stream, turbid and turbulent with pale mahogany silt. A couple of paper-bark birch saplings have lost their footing in the soft back, making a thin, crooked X across the stream, just a foot above the water. All three of us- them are on the other side of the stream from me, Younger Me and Her oohing and ahhing over a tiny newt, which is terrified and cornered against a moist rock. Dad watches, eyeballing the ground suspiciously for a possible snake.

"No." I try to turn again instinctively. "No, no..." Try to close my eyes. Nothing doing. "No, I don't want... " I'm cracking like ceramic, fear chip-chip-chipping away at me. "Nonono, I don't want to see this, please just let me go-!"

The child laughs as a tiny, blue-gray-brown blur darts towards the fallen tree trunks; unthinkingly, she gives chase ( _stupid, stupid_ ), moving along the slippery bark until she looks down, and her eyes widen. She loses first her momentum, her balance, and finally her footing.

I collapse to my knees, the roar of water mixing evenly with the blood pounding in my head. She bounds across the treacherous weave of branches, filled only with fear for her child ( _idiot, it's all your fault, you did this_ ), sticking as close to the trunks as she can. Dad is shouting like Younger Me has never heard before, and She ignores him: "On three, I'll lift you up, one, two, three-" The saplings bow further under the weight of two people as she pulls me awy from the branch I was clinging to, cracking wetly. The child edges her way across first ( _witless, useless, all your fault_ ), trembling with terror and adrenaline. Dad pulls her into safety, looking up at Her with worry beyond description highlighting his eyes.

She smiles reasurringly.

I shatter.

No, no no nonononoNONO _NONO **NO** -_

"Don't worry," she assures us, them, making her way back, stay still stop- "I'm not going anywhere."

To this day, I have no idea what caused it. Too much weight, too much water, termites, rot. Fate.

She takes another step forward. I'm screaming, silently. They couldn't hear me if I tried.

Crack.

Two seconds.

Muddy waters, musty wood-scent, sunlight in my sopping hair and grit coating my tongue as the waves keep churning, the birds keep singing, and the sun keeps moving in its march across the sky.

Gone.

The word scrawls itself across my eyes, chokes my throat even as grief sears it raw, thunders in my skull like an avalanche. The pain is too much, I can't think, I can't breathe, I don't want to breathe, it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts make it stop- I want to lay waste to the world and spit on its ashes- I want everyone to feel this- I want to end- I want-

I want her **back**.

I scream until the edges blur and my universe disentigrates and the weight of my pain tears the sky and trees into rags of blue and sepia, and the first hints of nothing claw their way in.

I don't want to feel like this.

I don't want to be human.

If this is what love is, to give the best of yourself away to someone, to have the only goodness you ever hoped to have die with them, I don't want to love. I don't want to live.

I want to have never been.

Nothing takes my fingers first, gentle as death, reaching into the space behind my eyes and shutting off all the things it finds there. It swallows me whole, unfeeling and ever hungry, until the person once known as Jean is nothing; no one, nowhere, nowhen.

[The reader has been ejected from Jean's perspective. Please try again later.]

Dark.

Darker.

Yet darker.

.

.

.

HUMAN.

.

.

.

CHILD.

.

.

.

Something grasps like fire, something utterly wrong, blue-white-violet and yet devoid of color, streaks up from the point of contact and earths in the heart of her being.

WAKE UP. **_NOW_**.

[First Person Perspective online.]

Semi-consciousness, coupled with a sense of extreme urgency, rends white-hot lines through my heart. It takes a second for me to start breathing, a tiring, intstinctive process. Minutes or hours later (I couldn't tell), a pins-and-needles sensation breaks out everywhere. And I mean, everywhere- face, fingers, toes. When comfortable is a word I can remember, I sit up (barely) to glance at the digital clock. 5:54 am. More than thirty minutes to my alarm. Close enough.

A minute and a half later, I'm downstairs, bending over the sink and trying to tamp down my gag reflex. When the urge passes enough, I splash a palmful of water on my face and slump against the mirror with a th'nk.

I groan.

Monday is going to be so. Fun. I can tell.

* * *

 **Two feet of rushing water can push most vehicles. Three treats them like rubber ducks in a bathtub. Do. Not. Underestimate the power of moving water.**

 **Now you all know where Jean got that little salute thing. :)**

 **This is all. From here on out things are going to speed up, so don't forget your seatbelts!**

 **Let me know of any misspellings, plot holes, stray cats or ideas (fluff is a nightmare to write). Have a fantastic day or night!**


	9. Chapter 9

Sans and I talk about absolutely nothing at all for the rest of the morning. It's as though the conversation is a stream; Sans and I are two springs, and when he cracks a joke there's a happy burble made by the water flowing around it. Even though I know that this brief lapse can only last so long, I lose myself in it, and laugh like there's never gonna be another joke.

Our conversation stream lasts all the way through lunch (a ketchup sandwich and a PBJ- I'll let you guess which is which) until it was stopped abruptly by a levee in the form of my dad pulling into the driveway. Sans blips off somewhere, and I hastily put his plate in the sink on my way to the door.

Dad sweeps through the door, already muttering irritaably about the cretins littering today's workplace. Hobbes agreed loudly in Feline on the way to the food bowl, ambling with a cat's arrogance on the way to the food bowl even though a city sparrow laid upon the doormat. I just grin. _That's_ my two dorks, all right.

[Funny. Her eyes just glide on over the extra car, dusty from disuse, and that door in the hall. I wonder where it goes...]

"Would you like something to eat?" I ask Dad pointedly over his exasperated raving.

"I mean, really, he's had plenty of _time_ to learn this! You'd think tha- oh. Yeah. Thanks, Jean." His ears turn a little red, and I fight the urge to laugh. He runs a hand through his hair- ginger, like mine, but lacking the curls- and then shoofs my head with the same hand. "How was your day?"

"Eh." I shrug nonchalantly. "The world turned, some stars went nova, a skeleton fell through the mirror in the basement. Same old gig."

He laughs softly, and smooches the top of my head. "I love you, blue jeans."

"Love ya more, old man." I lift the boxes out of his preoccupied hand and sigh noiselessly through my nose. Pizza for dinner _again_. _when will he ever get the courage to cook agai_

What was I thinking…? Never mind. If I can't remember it now, then it must not be important. I start his favorite sandwich- ham and mayonnaise with fresh spinach, all toasted. I almost think we're out of spinach until I realize there's a whoooole 'nother bag in the very back of the top shelf in the fridge. "Are you home for real, or is this just a lunch break?"

"Ah, sorry, just a lunch break. Where's the toaster?"

I choke down my relief and remove the bag of tortilla chips. "Right there. While you're in town, could you pick up some ketchup and milk? We're almost out."  
"Ketchup? Didn't we have _two bottles_ in the pantry somewhere?"

"Nope."

"God, going senile already. What a nightmare." I force a chuckle along with him, handing the sandwich over to be toasted. " What about work? I thought it was just something small…?"

"Yeah. S'just, a there was a bunch of _other_ small things, and they all got snowballed together."

There's a tense silence, frustrating because I don't know why it's tense. Dad's fidgeting, quiet, tapping out anxious rhythms on all the surfaces within reach. I sigh. "Wh-"

"It's just, uh, that, that she… It's been- been a year since…"

Slowly, absurdly slowly, I realize the meaning cringing behind his fumbling, achy words. My heart rate speeds up, and then slows to a crawl.

 _Oh,_ most of me thinks. _That._

The rest of me- small and livid with terror- is scrambling around on hands and knees, begging, pleading to know why the hell I'm not staggering under this weight I'm supposed to be carrying, yelling my throat hoarse at the intensity of this agony I do not feel, sobbing at the unquenchable greif in my soul that I'm not aware of, and _not feeling this aching_ _ **hole**_ _in this God-forsaken world that her absence left_.

I blink. My eyes aren't even stinging, and when I sepak, my voice is level, casual. "I'll go get my coat."

With an hour-long lunch break, a five-minute distance betwixt work and our house, and a 40-minute round trip to the cemetery Mo She was buried in, there is little time to get flowers. Dad chooses slowly and carefully, gruff from the pressure of unshed tears; three stargazer lilies offset by baby's breath. There is a 4-for-5-dollars discount, but the number three is sacred- one for me, one for Dad, one for me, and one for Her.

The drive to Oaklawn Cemetery is utterly silent. When it's time to get out, Dad uses 30 precious seconds to steel himself. I think we both know the steel will rot anyway.

He silently hands me the flowers. I gently free the blossoms of their plastic wrapping and lay them just below the headstone. Then I retreat to Dad's side, and we stare at the inscription under which she rests, thinking and remembering.

 _ **Elizabeth Jean Silversmith Gabiola**_

 _ **Mother, Sister, Daughter, Wife**_

 _ **April 12, 1977 - October 26, 2016.**_

 _ **May the stars watch over her.**_

My hand finds Dad's.

 _I miss you, Mom._

Out of the blue, I want to do something- shout Her name, scream, cry, sing in remembrance of what was lost; a shooting star, brief, fleeting, outlined against the frigid desert of eternity, doomed to freeze, to fail. If the universe is cold and uncaring, to steal such a beautiful person in the prime of her life, then what chance have I, a person a twelfth of Her, dirty and dim in comparison? What is the point of living if this is our fates, regardless of the good or bad we commit? _What is the point?..._

The energy fades, faster than it came and leaving lethargy in its place. Numbness threatens to take over my mind. It is only with the greatest willpower that I beat it back, back to the dark place from whence it came. The numbness has been there since day one, lurking with predatory patience; every time I beat it back, it's a little quicker to the edge of the skirmish and a little later in leaving. I know that it will be there as long as I have a soul; I know, too, that one day, I won't be able to hold it back any longer.

I don't think about that day much.

With a jerk, I realize that I haven't been breathing much at _all_ for the past 45 seconds; I breathe in like I've been underwater that whole time. Dad starts, too, unaccustomed to the noise. We don't release the other's hand until we have to part to get into the car. Dad breathes- quavering on the inhalations and shuddering on the exhalations- before surreptitiously wiping his face and starting the car.

It is only then that I notice the twin wet lines on my face.

* * *

 **Hobbes' Perspective**

He yawned, and stretched. The short-sleep in his chair had been refreshing. He sat back and washed himself, considering his options; inspect his realm that the furless-cats-on-two-legs used (by his permission), eat the dry, flavorless rocks-that-he-could-eat, drink out of the white-bowl-with-loud-water, or make dirt in the dirtplace-in-a-box. He had sadly been trapped inside the boxed-in-nest, and thus could not go into the outdoors and hunt. Hobbes decided on the first choice, and padded out of the room.

Rubbing his face and twining his tail around anything and everything he could, Hobbes inspected the eating room. Then he stopped at the only closed door in his boxed-in-nest; the short furless-cat-on-two-legs' favorite den, which often dressed in bright, exciting pelts and gave that odd, drawn-out barking purr very often.

For three winters, since he'd been a kitten, there had been three furless in the nest; the furless-she-kit-with-bright-hair, the furless-tom-with-bright-hair, and the furless-queen-with-dark-hair. The sorry represenative of purring had come quickly those days, and with ease, especially from the furless queen.

The day it all changed, there had been no warning but the heavy rain the night before; the family of three had vacated during the early hours, when the sun was just painting the horizon in red, and they didn't return for the _whole day_. In fact, the furless queen didn't return at all, no matter how much he pleaded for her to come back and play with him, and when he posed the question to the other furless, all they did was turn away.

Eventually, Hobbes came to the conclusion that the furless queen was not-breath-cold, and would never ever again come in through the entryway to scratch his ears and purr. He himself was no stranger to mourning- he had lost his mother and littermates in a fire- but for some bizarre reason, the furless kit and the furless tom kept feeling grief at the furless queen's absence an entire four-season after she was gone. It was curious, but Hobbes came to accept it, like many things before.

One thing Hobbes _wasn't_ accepting was the recent appearance of lazy-dangerous-miserable-not-furless. Its voice buzzed around much longer than needed in his ear fur, he had too-knowing eyes, and- worst of all- Hobbes had no idea **what** it was. It smelled like the bone of the various birds he caught, acted like a furless with problems, and it could _lift things_ without _touching them_ and make them smell like hot-water-empty-space-fire-bitter-cold for _days_.

It also slept a lot.

As a matter of fact, reflected Hobbes grouchily, it slept too much. Far too much. Not even _he_ slept that amount, even when he was ill! He stood in the doorway, glaring petulantly at the slumbering heap, lying face-down on the carpet. Hobbes twitched his ear in a sour fashion, and the lump of blue turns completely over in response, mumbling something that sounds like "P'pyr'ss…", still out cold.

Since Hobbes obviously hates Sans, it will be a complete mystery to all when the cat stomps over and settles into a loaf shape on the exact center of his ribcage.

Well… Perhaps it isn't a complete mystery.

He is a cat, after all.

Sans awoke to the slam of a door.

Shortly after, a lock clicked loudly- presumably on the same door- a door rolled out of the drive, and footsteps clacked on the floor downstairs. His mind was full of a pleasant pink cloud after a decidedly bland, dust-free dream; there was a heavy, fuzzy warmth on his ribs, and light from the CORE was filtering in from his window. He wondered vaguely if Pap was oka-

Wait.

Wait wait waaaaaaaaaait.

They didn't have a car, or a cat?

His spike of panicked magic- the monster equivalent of adrenaline- awakened higher thought with a _bang_. Papyrus isn't here- maybe safe, maybe not. There hadn't been a RESET- that was sunlight through the window and a tomcat on his chest. And he was mostly sure that this human wouldn't massacre the Underground.

…

Yeah, okay, he was lying and he knew it.

But, marginally less importantly, why on earth was this weird thing sleeping on him? He wasn't exactly, I dunno, warm? Or very soft? Just, what?

Meanwhile, the footsteps made their way up the stairs and into the bedroom. The mind's eye pans from the Sans with a Hobbes on top, and Jean shuts the door. She then proceeds to silently ooze down it into a well-practiced position- a tight, upright fetal ball with her arms hugging her knees, which in turn disguised her face.

"Hi Sans," She mumbled, voice uncharacteristically gray and flat. "Nice to see you somewhat awake. Why is Hobbes sleeping on you?"

"not the foggiest idea. to tail the truth, i have even less of an idea than you cuz there was nil cats in the Underground outside anime."

Jean raised her head, and _sweet Asgore her_ _ **eyes**_ \- "You had NO cats? What about Temmies? Don't they count on some level?"

"... uh." _they were just blank my God is that how i look when_ \- "no. temmies are… worse."

She really perked up at that. "Worse? How worse?"

"they. uh…" oh great, he was starting to sweat. Hobbes was starting to wake up. Joy. "they just. i. don't like them."

"Wait. are you _scared_ of _temmies?_ "

She was starting to look delighted. Hobbes, in a spirited movement, had somehow contorted his body into a position that most professional acrobats would be madly jealous of without falling off of Sans- though he did get a 8/10, for the tail draped across Sans' face. "keep going down that path and i'm gonna go to sleep at will."

She started to snicker. "I cannot believe you're scared of Temmies! That's terrible!"

"yup. downright clawful. night." Sans flopped backwards and drifted into the waiting darkness.

Jean smiled and crawled across the ground to scratch Hobbes on the head. He opened a single emerald eye, spotted her, and purred, digging his meathook claws into Sans' white shirt. Sans, who had his left arm thrown over his face, did absolutely nothing but mutter something suspiciously like "tem" and shiver faintly. Jean heaved a sigh, sitting down next to Sans cross-legged and thoughtful. She continued to pet Hobbes, relishing in the silence. The calm before- well. Not the storm, per se. Real life wasn't a roleplay; there was a long, sweaty, silence before the battle, reeking of fear; there was death, and bad luck, and unexpected rainstorms; there was consequences, and there was no reset button. Jean winced at that thought. Today had been painful, almost. The shadow of anguish hinted at a far deeper torment below the surface, and Jean was scared that feeling very much at all would set it off.

That was how she knew her soul trait wasn't bravery. When she was scared of something, she ran away instead of, at the very least, looking the problem in the face before turning heel.

But if she felt hardly anything at all… If she could sleep easily after her passing… What did that make her?

* * *

[Jean is ready to be experienced by the readers from first person.]

* * *

Hobbes chirped suddenly, chastising her for stopping. Jolted out of my reverie, I smiled faintly, wistfully at the tabby. "Do you remember her?"

Hobbes sighed in bliss and pushed against my hand.

"Figures. I never really thought animals were capable of much grief. Maybe it's a soul thing, huh?"

Hobbes yawned and began to wash his paws.

"Yep, those exist now, buddy. Whooda thunk it." I smiled a little wider. "I think she would have liked him. Do you remember? She always had some quip or prank or joke ready. Someone would insult her, and she'd just bounce back laughing; that one guy called her short, and all she did was say, 'Yeah, I've got hobbit blood and proud of it!' Remember?"

Hobbes started washing his ears and face; I moved my hand to his shoulders.

"She made oil paintings for five people, but she always preferred something else if it was someone she liked- watercolors, sketches. She even made that one hanging tree ornament for her twin sister, remember? And she said, 'iron, for strength and corruption, copper for surprises, and silver, for starlight and memory.' She always spoke in near riddles." Hobbes, who had sat up to wash his forelegs, flicked his ears at the crack in my voice.

"She always loved telling everyone within earshot about their eighth date. They hiked up a mountain, and while the sun set, he pulled out a guitar, and he played the absolute off-key, warped rendition of Drops of Jupiter. She said…" I shake my head at the burn in my eyes. _Just when I think I'm done…_ "She said it was the most beautiful song she ever heard."

Hobbes was washing, but I barely knew he was there; I was far, far away, eyes glazed with the mists of remembrance, unseeing. "She always had _time_ for people, too, hold up something important or halt in the middle of something that needed close attention, and listen to someone list all their worries. A little kid, a single mom, a little old person. She'd sit there and give them her ears and her heart, and make time for them. She called herself a 'christian in atheist's clothing'. That always befuddled dad to no end. Heh."

I keep going like that- masochist that I am- and on, and on, remembering every detail that I can. I can still remember her face, her voice, the touch of her hand on mine, her ringing laughter. It's wrong, and yet somehow makes some kind of sense- because I know that as long as I can remember, I'm at least a little safe. A little safe a little longer.

I snap to, checking the time. _Holy-_ It was already five freaking thirty two! Gosh, how in the world did it get that late? I leapt to my feet and ran down the stairs. I had a plan, but it hinged on my dad _not being here_. Which meant I had to _be on time…_

I am so glad we got ketchup.

I poked Sans.

"C'mon, bonehead. I gotta talk to you about something."

No reaction. I poked him again. "I'll throw a sock at you?"

Nada. Third time. "I made you a ketchup sandwich."

"mnf."

"Saaaaaaannsss. Please wake up. Please?"

"i just came for the sandwiches. i didn't sign anything about weird timespace shenanigans like this."

"Did you read the small print? You're always supposed to read the small print."

"heh. nope. that's it." He blinks an eye open. "'sup, kid."

"Ceiling, troposphere, maybe some cloud, jetstream, stratosphere, mesosphere, thermosphere, a bunch of space junk, and then the depths of outer space." I crouch down. "But I expected you're interested in the ketchup sandwich."

"right again." He takes the plate, gingerly setting it on the floor like maybe it will explode if he's not careful enough. "but really. just patella me the truth; what's up?"

"Um." I start tracing circles in the carpet. "Sorry for you to have woken up to me pestering you, but… I just- I'm, like, a gold-medal athlete when it comes to avoiding things, and I just figured maybe we could get most of the questions out of the way tonight? Before my tiny shred of courage runs away again?"

He sits there for a moment. I fumble. "Because, um, it's a conversation we'd both rather not be having and I just figured that- if you don't want, that's fine- It's, it's just I-"

He grunts and swipes a negative gesture through the air, cutting me off. "nah. i get your logic. i relish the fact that we can together mustard the strength to taco 'bout… eh. i ran out of sauce. i'll ketchup later."

I winced. "Ouch. That was a little lacking in tact."

"hey, if you wanted tact, ya should have called in colonel mustard."

"Owww," I groan. "Stop. Just. Stop right there. Continue no further down that fell path. You're taking us off track."

"sorry, what? i didn't catch that. mayonnaise you speak up?"

"It's may you speak up," I say firmly past my grimace, "And if you don't stop I'll stuff your eyesockets full of marshmallows."

Said eyesockets widen. "you wouldn't."

"Try me," I growl. "Now. Twenty small questions, six deep questions, and you can't just call small questions deep because you're too lazy to do anything else."

"thanks for the idea."

I scowl at him halfheartedly. A grin identical to his own is fluttering underneath. "No lying, and you can call three save-for-laters, which means you answer it later. And actually answer it later. No buts, no cuts, no coconuts. Now we fist bump."

I hold out my fist. He misses the first time- deliberately, I can see his smile get a little wider at my huff- and then hits my knuckles with an unexpected _pop_! I yelp. There's tattered remnants of a tiny yellow balloon on his knuckles. "How?! That definitely wasn't there before!"

He smirks. "one small answer to go: maaaaaagiiic."

"You know- Ugh. I give up. You're the prank master."

"i had no idea there was ever a competition in the first place."

"Ha. There wasn't." I pause to think for a moment. "What's your favorite color?"

He looks incredulous. "nn?"

"I asked you a question, dork."

"uh. blue i guess?"

"Don't just leave it hanging like that. I gotta have a valid reason here!" I protest.

"i dunno. because- blue is echo flowers? and the color of the sky? and just… 'cause blue."

I nod, satisfied. "Okay, then. Your turn."

"... why…" I perk up. A deep question?

"why did the froggit cross the road?"

I have to think long and hard. "Because it had a warrant?"

"nope. to get to the other side."

"That was officially the worst one yet."

"knock knock."

I give him a withering glower. "Who is it _now_?"

"the froggit."

You could probably hear me groan from the Russia/Alaska border. "Ask a real question, please."

"where were ya at lunch?"

Wow.

This is just.

"Pfff," I snort. "Real slick. I went- Dad and I-" I throw my hands in the air because I can't even _bleeding talk_ \- "We visited Mom's grave!

He just kind of... sits there. "M-moving on now! What's your favorite number?"

"why would i have a favorite number. that's so pointless."

"No it's not! Favorite numbers are very important, they- wait. Was that a pun?"

He grins. "i don't know, was it?"

"You're just impossible." I think for a second. "My favorite number is twelve, because it has six factors and when squared, all the digits are factors of twelve. Your turn. I think."

"'kay." A silence grows, one I feel should probably be tense, except I don't know what to be tense about. Then he says, carefully, "what did you mean earlier by "humans whose job is to be scared'?"

Crud.

Of course he had to ask that.

Curse you and your keen mind, Sans.

"huh?" Great. Even better. I must've said that last part aloud. Greeeeaaat.

"Okay. So, you know the Royal Guard, right? And, I don't know, all the rest of that? Sentries and stuff? Well, um, us humans have something like that, too, except we've had way more resources and space- ha, literally in some cases- and motive for forming things like that. And we're stubborn, and we have an absurdly gargantuan population, and, um, stuff like that…" I scratch my chin. How do I put this.

"So a bunch of humans decided that they wanted to make sure they were safe. And, heck, they definitely probably started out with mostly pure intentions, but then some people overseas started getting powerful. I mean, crazy powerful. And… Oh, buggery, I can't remember what happened next. Gimme a second-" I hop up and start poking through my bookshelves. "Oh, come on, I swear it was there not five days back… Aha!" I hold up my triumph; a thick history textbook.

"Kay, so I'm going to start at about the War of 1812. So, there's two major temperate continental masses, one in the Western Hemisphere-" grunt as I pry open the textbook-" and one in the East. A bunch of humans who called themselves Englishmen found that, lo and behold, not only was the earth round but there was a whole 'nother landmass out there, dubbed America at some point in time (This is where you are right now, fyi). So… "

I flip it to a specific page, one with a couple of maps- one of the Americas made in the 1500s, and a modern one on the next page. "A bunch of people who were feeling like some major religious freedom would be a nice change crossed the Atlantic ocean and reached the Americas. Eventually, almost everyone _else_ in Europe felt like coming over, and the people who ruled Europe got ticked off. One thing led to several other petty things, which led to a declaration of war from America.

"After the War- which we, the Americans, won- and a rocky start, people settled down somewhat and focused on making America America. Most of the Army was formed during that time, and kept up in case something like 1812 occurred again. Which it did, of course- the Civil war, World War Two, et cetera."

I heaved a sigh, leaning over the book. "The army is supposed to make sure this country is safe- and believe me when I say they aren't prone to being merciful. They have other people to do that. And completely unknown-to-mankind-stuff like you, bonehead, isn't going to make them happy. They've gotten all kinds of terrifying things in their arsenal, so don't go ordering pizza because chances are the pizza boy is going to put your lovely face up on social media. Which will spell the end for you, with a capital En." I close the book, holding it up and waving it around for emphasis. "Now, there's a lot of squiggly parts and knots, but that's what this thing is for, so if you get really bored, read it. But mostly, just… Stay safe I guess? Because everyone has a phone these days. With a camera."

Gosh, I can't remember the last time I rambled so long. Sans is staring at- no, now he's looking at the book. Something strikes me out of the blue; all their textbooks… Came from the dump. Which means they'd been through book hell and back. Water, acidic water, pointy stuff in the acidic water to tear at pages and bend spines.

It almost makes me cry.

I try to turn to cheerier topics. "So on a rather unrelated note, what's your favorite book?"

He's got that look again- the vaguely uncomfortable one, with a bit of unreadable mixed in. "i, uh, don't have a favorite book."

"... You don't have. A Favorite. Book."

"that's what i said."

I feel my jaw drop. "Dude. You have to have a favorite book. How about classics? H. G. Wells? War of the Worlds? Journey to the Center of the Earth? Fahrenheit 451? _Nothing?_ Oh, gosh. This is atrocious." I get up, again, to peruse my books. This trip takes considerably less longer than before. "Okay, considering your culture is much different from humans'- I think- you might not enjoy these as much as I did, but I'm afraid you're going to have to forgive me, because I can't really find all that much well-written science fiction. This is Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and _this_ beauty is What If?, Serious Scientific Answers To Absurd Hypothetical Questions. I think you will enjoy it _tremendously_." I set down the novels and pat them. "This is your unofficial homework. And before I ramble any more, please ask me a question."

He frowns at the books for awhile before asking quietly, "what do you think of me?"

And again, he stops me in my tracks. Truly, this is a night of surprises.

"I don't know. Perhaps… Perhaps a better question would be how much I know."

"then how much do you know?"

He's not defiant. This is Sans I'm talking about, he's given up on everything but his brother, remember? He looks… tired. Without hope. He's not scared either. He's just…

Drained. A pile of dust with a smile pasted on.

"I…"

Sweet cheese, where on Earth do I even start?

"I know too much, and not enough. I haven't seen every outcome, but… I wanted to, so what does that make me? I was given the ability to strip away consequences like old paint, make the world anew, to never die." My mouth twitches up into its little half-smile. "It was just a game, after all, what did it matter? Just zeroes and ones, just lines of code, just pixels on a screen. What did it matter if I killed everyone? Even if they did exist, I could just-" I slam a fist on the floor, infuriated with myself- " _start over_. Hell, they wouldn't even remember! I was one of those people who examined every nook and cranny I could wedge my character into.

I loose my hands from their grip against themselves and force calm over the squall of my head. "I was _careful_ , I- I systematically pried everything apart. If I could have chosen everything at once, I would have done that. I was testing the waters, poking things to see what they'd do, and it was okay, because if I dusted that snowdrake on accident, I could just click a button and everything would be back to normal."

I take a moment to fully restore my voice. "I did the most average routes- a Pacifist, a few of the Neutral routes, A Genocide, a No Mercy, and two True Pacifist. It's never really certain exactly how much of the Resets you remember, but it's definite that you do. There's… Amalgamates in the True Lab, and… Well." I give a little laugh. "You two were the most mysterious people in the game, you and Papyrus. You just- up and asserted yourselves one day, out of the blue, in Snowdin. But, umm…" Ah, what was it…? "I'm a legendary fartmaster."

Sans' eyebrows (come on, I have no idea, stop asking me) rose to an astronomical height. "welp. i guess that answers my question. you are really immature."

"Hey! I'm not-" My mind flashed an image of what I'd just said. "O-okay, so maybe that was-" He starts sniggering. "Hey! This isn't funny!"

"no, you're right," he gasps, "it's hilarious!"

"You have a terrible habit of trying to convince everyone you're alright by cracking jokes at your expense," I say flatly.

"you know you're smiling, right?"

I change the subject. "Why do you even drink ketchup, anyway?"

"why not?"

"Because you could drink tea."

Sans gags. "yech, no. leave the weird fruity sludge to someone else."

"Coffee?" I try.

"half the stuff that falls is disgusting, and a tenth of the stuff that's not actually tastes like coffee. luxury commodity."

"That's terrible!" I exclaim, looking aghast.

"tell me about it."

Oops, bitter subject. (Oh my gosh nO NOT A PUN) "Your turn."

"What did one skeleton say to the other?"

"... I've got your back?"

He chuckles a little. I have to squash down an absurd spiral of glee. "good, but no. it's 'i've got a bone to pick with you.'"

Okay… why do you always wear that one jacket? You have to have something else, the possibility of you owning another jacket somewhere in your chaotic room is way too high."

He puts a hand to his chest. "ouch, that cut me to the bone," he complains with a false-hurt expression on his soft-edged face. "your room isn't exactly a beauty, you know." He leans forward conspiratorially; "however, i did clone this jacket. i have six more somewhere."

" _Where_ somewhere?"

"i'd tell ya, but i'd have to kill ya."

"Fiiiiine, Mr. Mysterious. Your turn."

"you said 'completely unknown to mankind' earlier."

I get the feeling I know where this is going. It's not a nice feeling. "Yep. That I did."

He pins me with a gimlet stare. I stare back. Chills start racing up my spine and back down again. My eyes begin burning. And then I realize something vital (ahaha);

Sans doesn't need to blink.

…

Did I ever say that I can be really stupid?

Yeah, I figured.

"Fine, okay," I groan. "I'll try to make this painless. Either monsters literally didn't exist, or nobody remembers you, because I think our technology would be better. Yes?"

Sans stares at the- wait. He doesn't need to blink, which means he stares at everything. Stupid stupid dumb. Nevertheless, he stares at the ketchup sandwich. "sure."

I feel like I need to say something. "Sorry" slips off my tongue before I even think about it.

Something in his face twitches. "stop doing that."

I blink. "What?"

"stop _apologizing_ like that." He shrugs his hood over his face, but I can still feel him glowering at the sandwich like it personally insulted his lineage. My subconscious starts worrying about it; if he gazes any harder at it, he'll start toasting the bread from sheer will. "you're not supposed to feel sorry. you're not supposed to feel guilty. you're- youre-"

My brain grinds to a halt. I'm angry, and I'm not sure why- because anger is easy to feel?- and then I get even more angry, because I think I know why.

It isn't quick- there's no lightbulb. It's just… a bunch of little things connect, finally.

"I'm what? Supposed to be human? Do you know something, _Comic Sans?_ I'm going to apologize, and apologize some more, because I'm not some mindless destruction machine. I'm largely aware of my mistakes, thankyouverymuch, and I regret many of them. And you wanna know why I regret them? Because I was aware of my choices." There's a deep seated fury in my voice, but I make sure it's cold, and that the waves don't toss my boat against a sandbar, because I'm really, really quiet and mumbly and- as frankly ashamed as I am to admit it- the anger makes me enunciate **way** better.

"I know you would just love to live under a rock and bar yourself off, but that's a bad idea. I know that's a bad idea because I did that, and still am to some shameful extent, and by the four dimensions known to man, I'm going to clear up why that's a bad idea and how hard I'm going to throw a nectarine at your head if and when you do that." I jab a finger at his surprised face. "One. Barring yourself is distancing yourself, is basically what LOVE is. I'm _not_ about to sit here and let you do that to yourself any longer. And two-" I throw my hands up in the air- "Like, what the actual hell! I mean heck! What was it that trapped you guys underground again? Racism! What are you practising? Racism! Racism is a disgusting, poorly named, entirely hereditary _thing_ and good lord, I'm not going to have that under my roof, **buster**. Three- Imma turn that poor fruit into sauce, and there will be a dent the size of hobbes in your head. So cut it out." I sag. "And in case you have any doubt, _I_ said _all that_ because I'm _worried about you_ and it really _drives_ me _up_ the _flipping wall_ when people don't take me seriously. SO. We are going to TREAT each other like COMPLETELY CIVILIZED PEOPLE instead of STEREOTYPES. Period. End of rant. Done. No buts." I plop to the floor. "Now, if you aren't going to actually eat that sandwich I'll put it in the fridge because lukewarm ketchup is disgusting."

He's still watching me. I glance behind me to make sure there isn't, say, a clown smiling over my shoulder, or maybe a mime (which is almost as bad). "What?"

He takes a few seconds to reboot. "you don't normally do this, do you?"

"Rave for that long? No. Not since my best friend Chloe left."

"you did this to your friend."

"Obviously. I cared about her health. Sandwich?"

His eyebrows start rappelling down. "... i guess not."

"Good. I'm going to make a mug of tea. Shout if you want some."

I start going down the stars, completely ignoring the look on his face. It's the most confused I've seen him yet, which is saying a lot, considering.

And I _still_ have to tell him about Gaster.

* * *

i- but no comment on the third person. Hmmmm. I wonder… Nah, he's just still half asleep and dreaming.

* * *

 **Poor Sans. Once he was a young hopeful skelle who wanted to be friends with most everyone. AND THEN UNDERTALE HAPPENED WHOOPS**


	10. Prelude

**Imma put the reviews at the bottom from now on to get on with the story earlier. If you haven't been checking them out, they have juicy tidbits sometimes. ... They can become rather long though. XP**

 **An important note for this chapter:**

 **Don't try this at home. Extreme uses of desentization as a painkiller turns people into sociopaths. That's not a good thing.**

 **Thank you! :3**

* * *

Jean felt…

Nothing? No. That was absurd. She had to be feeling _some_ thing.

She certainly remembered. Jean didn't think she could ever forget the way silt felt on her scalp and the muddy water on her skin, drying in the cool breeze under the sun, it was probably impossible to delete anything that had happened in the past… Eight? Eight hours. What a day.

Father had taken quite a while to become hysterical. Only after 911 had arrived, wrapped her in assurances and a blanket, and begun asking what had happened for a quarter hour had the pain begun to register. That was unforgettable, watching such a solid man shatter under the weight of grief.

Less vividly was the memory of the cadaver pulled from the water a mile downstream, postmortem bruises and lacerations littering the flesh and tearing the soaked clothing, and most importantly a hole in the back left of the skull. Yet the corpse looked nothing like the way _she_ did. The complexion was too pale, the body too limp. Something else was gone, too, as unspecified as the moment of dawn and somehow as vital as a beating heart. It was so strange, the way the loss of life seemed to pull everything else out of her.

Jean scoffed at that. That was obvious- people were meant to be alive! What a ludicrous thought that anything resembling a consciousness should remain after death. A ludicrous thought, yet still entertained- it slunk around in the back of her head somewhere. Irritating. There should be _order_.

The officials seemed to take Jean's behavior in stride. They must have put it down to shock. Whatever they thought, the quiet cop who chauffeured them home gave no sign. She left a card and advice and the smell of paperwork in her wake.

Father had retired early. That may not have been the wisest decision, since the master bedroom likely still smelled of his wife. It wasn't as though there was anywhere else he could go to - sleep? Grieve? - for Jean had already retired as well. Her motives were anything but sleep, for she felt -

A wall.

Yes. _That_ was it. A massive concrete behemoth, guarding her core from the emotional deluge outside. But concrete was obsolete. It was stiff and totally unyielding, cracking already under the weight. Castle walls could be broken. What Jean needed was strength, flexibility. She needed metal to ward the wolves of pain away.

Jean needed a wall of steel.

So she sat down, deemed that unsatisfactory, and laid down. Let the silence of this stone-cold house be her mantra. Let the wellsprings of pain lead her to the weaknesses in her foundation.

Let the world fade to gray.

Think.

Look back.

Remember.

Corrugated hickory bark. The smell of leaf mold and living things. Wind brushing its ethereal fingers over and through yellowed, dying leaves.

The memories started flickering, faster but ever deeper. Caterpillar on bark. Forests of moss in crevices of old bedrock. The chattering of a stre-

Jean clenches her teeth so hard in obstinate denial as the memory kicks her out that the enamel squeaks.

 _I_ know _it hurts_ , she shouts at the part of herself still clutching to the burning coals - like an idiot - _but you have to give in!_

She dives back in, plunging head-first into molten metal, satiny smooth.

Deeper this time. Deeper!

Sky a fragile periwinkle blue through branches and a roof of lemon yellow, the single eye of the sun warming her skin; skin now dry, now damp, now muddy as her sneakers slipped on wet bark above the frothing brook-

Jean cursed. Close, much closer: progress, but not progress enough. She could taste the smooth expanse of metal, could feel its chill and see light rebounding off it. _Close._

Like pouring metal into a mold, Jean flowed into the memory for a third time, chasing down nooks and crannies in the bedrock:

The moment she fell,

No. _Hold on._

The sound of her laughter,

Close-

The sensation of her arms holding me close,

Closer-!

The sight of her frizzy black hair,

 _Almost-!_

Her face and her smile -

Shock, falling, _crack_! Pain. Pain. Hurts, stop stop it get out of my _head-_

Further down, down, down the metal danced, ferreting out all weakness. All that her mother was, Jean hunted like a terrier tracks rodents and spaps their puny spines in two.

Yes!

She is a shining silver eye that reflects everything. It is invincible. It is perfect. Perfect in every way. This is how all should be; awesome to behold, almighty, enviable, with all unwholesome things tucked away from prying eyes. How beautiful! How exquisite! How tidy and amiable!

Jean opened her eyes and laughed.

For this was how it felt to be complete.

* * *

Something generally unheard of is going on in Jean's SOUL.

Its not shock. People go into shock all the time, and only the unluckiest don't make it. Plus, the shock has passed. Nothing is between the pain of loss and the vulnerable culmination of all she is. To put it succinctly, Defense is at zero.

This is worse. So _ooo_ much worse.

The point at which it starts is as distinguishable as the moment of dawn. Many perspectives from many people, all disagreeing with each other on some small level on whether it's _here_ or later, _here_.

It creeps, crawls, not so much inches as millimeters its way in. The surface shows little sign of decay, only spots of translucence here and there. But now the reader views the SOUL from a cross section, and even this limited view (for the SOUL is quite thin) shows how the conscious effort nibbles, gnaws, bites, wolfs down swathes of color. Deeper it delves, eternally patient, eternally hungry. It wipes out the roots of green, blue and gold, and with it any further growth.

Then it hits the core.

It halts, as though puzzled, though such a thought is inconceivable. Apathy knows no bounds. It slows until the gray has completely pooled around the SOUL's core. No longer can any white be seen.

The imperfect sphere compresses, as slowly, if not more so, as before. There's no reason to go go fast: it's more energy efficient, and anyway, it isn't like its host can do anything. The vacuum has always won and always will.

Then something unorthodox happens.

The core starts fighting.

It isn't surprised. This core is fighting harder than most of the other SOULs ever have, but the gray nothing has no memory. It's just a bottomless hungry pit, like a panda. Pandas have a legitimate complaint, however; their food is low-calorie, and they burn it off quickly digesting it and staying warm. SOUL matter is about as high-calorie as you get.

The core fights with a spitfire, last-chance urgency, and a sense of self-loyalty that rivaled nations at their most desperate hours.

The gray metaphorically kicked back its heels in a plush armchair.

It could wait.

* * *

 **I love pandas. Pandas are great. :)**

 **At this point Jean is TOTES screwball. Do not follow example. Bad.**

 **Also... There is much of this to come... Assumptions will likely be incorrect...**

 **Also there are nonsensical statements in this, the shortest of chapters, as well as severe contradictions. See above statement for justification of this.**

 **On to the reviews for last chapter:**

 **TrainerFiona (chapter 7) :** Ahhh I missed my notifications for this and the next two chapters! I humbly ask for forgiveness because Hobbes definitely won't do it, and someone's got to. Anyways. Sooo Brackets, friend, buddy, pal. Forgive me if this sounds stupid, but are you a different person? :P

Awwww Jeanie's got a crush! Ahhhhhhhh that's really cute,even if she can't do anything about it. (how old IS Jean/Sans anyways? I kinda forgot...)

 **Somehow I missed this one yesterday oops**

 **[...]**  
 **[I am a character able to pass in and out of the so-called "fourth wall" with no ill effects upon the universe the characters exist in. I am also able to... interact with the writer. Only one writer uses the pseudonym "MemorySteel".]**  
 **I... Didn't... Know you knew that? Um.**  
 **[Now you know.]**  
 **HAHA, WELP THIS IS AWKWARD**

 **Heheheheh~ Jean is mildly crushing on Sans, yes. This is because her ignorance of his age, her desire to be friends with him, and her wonnnnderful teenage hormones! *jazz hands* GOTTA LOVE THOSE! *sarcasm sarcasm***

 **Jean's birthday is in... Uh... February? I guess it is now. XD she's fourteen.**

 **Sans is anywhere from 20 - 50 years old. His maturity is all over the place due to all the bs he's been through. Ehhhg. Poor guy.**

 **TrainerFiona (chapter 8) :** Ahhh I'm sorry! I missed this chapter! Forgive me please, kind benevolent ruler of cool Undertale fanfics! Anyways, something else has to be going on with Jean's soul besides the tragedy of Jean's mom. Yes, she fell to her death saving Jean, and yes Mommy died by drowning, but that PROBABLY wouldn't cause a vacuum of doom in Jean's soul. And am I mistaken, or did Jean almost die? (I'm talking about the pins-and-needles sensation she had) If not please explain it to me if you could. Also I think the last part (just before your 'rebooted' ) would be we finally better if it was disjointed, like this.

Fire.  
Burning.  
Blue-White-Violet-  
CLEAR  
Error  
Error.  
errorerrorerrorERROR  
Reboot successful

 **Hahaha. You're asking allll the right questions.**

 **Firstly - duh! Of course thou art forgiven! *pat***

 **Ahahaha. Now the fun bit.**  
 **The vacuum is self-inflicted. Losing someone she was _very_ attached to hurt so much she resorted- as some people do - to desensitization, albeit at a much much much faster speed than considered 'usual'. Unfortunately, our dear main character slingshotted straight through 'numb' and through the other side. Whoops! This is the PERFECT specification for a vacuum to grow! (Not that anyone nows this, cuz no one has recorded such things before.)**  
 **If left alone, the vacuum would have totally consumed Jean's SOUL. Growth would have roughly doubled every two hours; eventually, she would have become locked in systemwide apathy and died, probably from one or more organ's failure, one of those weird situations likely labelled "died from heartbreak."**

 **Next! You hit the nail on the head! Her heart was jumpstarted by the fiery... Uh... Stuff. She kinda. Hyperventilated and. Then stopped breathing.**  
 **I am not treating this child well. XD**

 **Lastly, I LIKE THIS IDEA. YESSS**

 **TrainerFiona (chapter 9) :** Quick question what would happen if Jean put glitter in San's eyes? I mean they are just basically eyeholes, soooooo

 **I don't even know? Magic skelemonster anatomy? Which is funny because by now I should KNOW. *indecision***

 **But. There's a niggle of an idea at the back of my head that Sans would not appreciate this. He doesn't have eyeballs, but there's a marrow-deep instinct that there shouldn't be anything around the place he sees from.**

 **Pandaxoom** : Your very welcome, that was great! I feel very proud of you~

And Hobbes.

This is pretty good for what I'm guessing is a 'filler' chapter, and its funny. Good job, 100%, Nailed it, BRAVO  
*bows and disappears in a poof of purple and gold sparkles*

 **Apparently I did not respond to you? (Confused meme face) my deepest apologies. *bow from the waist***

[Hobbes is proud too. That is, too proud. Cats and their egos, no?]

 **Lauralie20** : AWESOME. If I had a younger sibling, that'd give me ideas... Sadly, I don't have a younger sibling to prank :( But this story is AWESOME! Also, if I were Jean, I'd be SO MAD with Sans I'd yell at him for a solid five minutes before becoming out-of-breath. And, what's gonna happen when she finds out Sans snooped in (presumably) Mom's room? She's probably gonna kick him onto the street in rage. Either that, or her dad's gonna find out about Sans, and HE'S gonna kick the skeleton to the curb. Really good story, by the way! Thanks for writing it! Also, side note: If you want, you can check out my own fanfic, Reset Rut. You don't have to if you want, but I thought I'd give you the opportunity in case you decide to read it. Have a great day/night, and keep on writing, 'cause you're REALLY GOOD, even better than me (by a lot, to be honest).

 **I have a twin brother, but I'd have to wait until I had a cold to pull something like this- we go to the same school and share everything. He might also despise me for a while, but this... This could be worth it. XD**

 **Jean has already yelled at Sans for five minutes. It takes up to a day for Jean v.1.1 to recharge. Although I for two would not. XD**

 **Ah... Jean isn't going to look there. She, uh, reached a decision a while back that poking into such sensitive areas was a... An unwise decision. Liz's room was caked in dust- nobody had been there for ages.**

 **Cadin would wig out at the sight of what surely must be a reanimated corpse in casual clothing. These things just don't happen!**

 **Oh golly gee whizz, you complimented my writing three - four times?! Oh wow, oh boy, oh my *blushes furiously***

 **You too! I'll check your story out.**


	11. Sorry

Hey, guys.

Something big has come up family-wise and... I can't continue this story. It's frustrating that this story will be just another unfinished tale among the many other abandoned ones. Thanks _so much_ for your support, all of you. It means more to me than words can describe.

I'm sorry.

Thanks, again.

\- Memorysteel


End file.
